


Vulnera

by eag



Series: Fortunae Plango Vulnera [2]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Angharad and Capable are friends and allies, Drivers and Lancers, Friendship, Furiosa and Coil, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nux and Slit as War Pups, Other, Scars, Slavery, Survival, The Ace trains Furiosa, The Citadel, The Dag reads books, War Boy Furiosa, War Boy Society, War Boys Showing Affection, War Pup Training, War Pups - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4417640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the Ace's tutelage, Nux and Slit become friends after Slit is raised up from his bleak Bartertown past; Furiosa makes a new ally and is set on the path to becoming a Driver; and isolated for over a year in solitary captivity, the Dag is drawn out of the wilderness of her mind by Angharad and Capable. </p><p>Intersecting and parallel experiences: stories of the past intersect with hopes, dreams, and fears for the future.  Includes Morsov and Slit fighting it out for rank, Furiosa doing some fast driving to save the Ace, and the girls attending a very grim feast thrown by Immortan Joe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Follows in chronology immediately after the end of [Furiosa](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4246143), when Furiosa and the Ace return from Bartertown with the new assets: Slit, Angharad, and Capable.
> 
> Vulnera, in the third person sense, as in to wound, or to act against/diminish the authority of something.
> 
> A three-part fugue following Nux, Slit, Furiosa, as well as Angharad, Capable, and the Dag. More detailed notes to follow upon completion of the story. 
> 
> (See the end of the work for [more notes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4417640/chapters/10628508).)

The rig came to a shuddering halt, and the boy now known as Slit was jarred awake from a fitful doze. A War Boy in a grimy bodice opened the lower hatch and blew out the lantern, and the faint light and fresh air coming through into the stinking hold felt like freedom. One after another, the prisoners were let out, and Slit found himself blinking in the searing sunlight as he stumbled out onto firm ground.

Dust scattered at his feet, but then dizzily as he stumbled out from underneath the rig, Slit found himself being lifted by a strong pair of black-stained hands onto muscular shoulders, his legs dangling on the man's chest. He caught a glimpse of dark goggles; it was the man who had bought him from Bartertown, the man he hadn't seen since they had left days ago.

A roaring crowd seethed all around him, and then there was a flash of light across the sky, almost as bright as lightning.

"Rev it up for the Immortan Joe!"

Slit saw the tiny figure on the distant balcony and heard its booming speech, but lost track of the words as he looked around, at the heavily armed men in their black masks, at the other War Boys standing around the great metal hulk of the rig, at the filthy grotesques that were a rare sight even in Bartertown but here, swarming in droves just beyond the cars, as if afraid to come closer.

“My Imperator Acosta. My Half-life War Boys. Once again, you have served me well."

“Right.” The man said softly, his voice a rasping croak. “That's our cue. Hang on.” Quickly, Slit leaned forward to hold on, feeling the man's growing fuzz of sandy hair beneath his palms, but the man had a supporting hand firm against Slit's back as he climbed up onto the top deck of the War Rig, quick and nimble. 

“It is by my hand that you will all be lifted up!”

“By his hand we'll all be lifted up!” The War Boys around him shouted as Slit found himself up top, looking down at everyone around him. He craned his neck; down beside the rig, the War Boy in the bodice was standing beside two young girls, each hand gripping one by a wrist, as if to keep them from getting any foolish ideas about running.

One of the girls looked up at him; she had a mass of curling red hair.

With a sudden jolt, the lift began to rise, and the creak of the chains shuddering them upward and then Slit found himself raised high, so high above everyone else. And he felt something inside of him change, as if the hurts of the past no longer could touch him anymore where he was and he was rising into a new life and for a moment, as his heart began pounding fiercely in his chest and he could feel an almost numbness going through his body...

For a moment he couldn't breathe.

 

“It's the Ace!” 

“The Ace!” 

“He's back!”

The Ace swung off the War Rig and landed neatly on the metal lift with a jolt that went through Slit. He brought Slit down in a smooth motion, setting him on his feet. All around them, cars were flying through the air on lifts, being brought up with their tired and dusty crews. The girls were gone; Slit had no idea where they went, and quickly forgot about them as a crowd of boys swarmed around them.

Slit backed up a little, closer to his closest ally, the man who had bought him from Bartertown; these were War Boys in miniature.

“The Ace! The Ace!” There was a cheer among the boys 

“Pups been workin hard while I was gone?” The Ace pulled off his goggles and looked to the Revhead, the substitute trainer, and the younger War Boy nodded. 

“Yeah, nothin bad to say about 'em, Ace. Everyone's done what they been told.”

“Good work.” The Ace dismissed the Revhead, and he knelt down so that he was at eye level with the boys. Slit shifted faintly, pressed against the Ace's back, as the boys pressed in closely, arms draped about each other, looking over each others' shoulders companionably, eyes glittering in their darkened eyesockets. “Glad to hear you all been workin hard. You know what that means?”

“Yeah!”

“Presents!”

The Ace grinned, wry with amusement, and he dug his hand into random pockets, patting around, pantomiming a search. “Ah, I don't know where I could have put 'em...maybe I lost 'em.”

“Ace!” One boy leaned forward; his eyes were a shocking, startling blue. “It's okay. We don't need presents. We're just glad you didn't go to Valhalla yet.”

“Ah, Nux, that's only cuz it wasn't my turn yet. Everyone's got a turn some day, if they're brave and fight hard.” The Ace's smile turned tense, but then he pulled out a handful of hex keys.

“Here we are.” The boys lit up in excitement as the Ace began handing them out, one each.

Slit stayed out of the way, expecting nothing, but then the Ace stood and drew him close, holding up his hand.

“Who are we?”

“War Pups!” The boys yelled.

“And who's this?”

“A new War Pup!”

The Ace let Slit go, pressing something into his hand as he did so. It was cold and metal against his hot, dusty palm, and when he opened his hand to look, it was a silver hex key, glinting in the warm sunlight. Eyes widening, Slit slipped it in his pocket.

“Come on, Slit. Let's make you a War Pup. Nux, come and help. Rest of you, back to work.”

“Yessir!”

As the other War Pups scattered into the vast chasm of the shops, Slit was introduced into War Boy society.

 

Shivering and damp from being scrubbed down, unused to going without his shirt, Slit cautiously reached up and felt at the bare skin of his head. With his other hand, he gripped the hex key in the pocket of his new trousers, a little big and a little long, but rolled up and cinched tight at the waist.

Washed up and freshly shorn himself, the Ace looked strange to Slit without the white, as if he were merely a man. The Ace's skin was marred with scars old and new; there were healing stripes of scabs along his forearms. A long, healing cut marred the side of his torso, red and angry. When Slit thought about it, he could remember hearing the shouts of the War Boys and the heavy sounds of explosions all around the stifling darkness inside the hold.

The Ace led them through winding tunnels. Here they made a turn, and the rooms began to become progressively smaller, the tunnels more narrow, the ceilings lower.

“Oldest part of the warren,” the Ace explained, as he ducked into the small chamber escorting Slit, followed by Nux. Fire glowed red-hot in a metal basket, and a strange War Boy stood waiting, leaning idle against the wall as he watched the fire with lazy eyes, occasionally giving it a stir with a long metal stick.

The Ace knelt down to meet Slit's eyes, his hard-calloused hand on Slit's shoulder. “Time to learn about the most important thing about bein a War Pup. Means you'll be a War Boy one day, like him.” The Ace pointed to the strange War Boy; the man stirred the fire again, and in it, Slit could see the glowing outline of a brand. “Like me.”

Slit swallowed, fingering the hex key.

“Ain't no one likes this part of it, but it's necessary. Keeps you from being stolen. None of us want you lost. If you're wearin the brand, we can find you again, get you back. You're part of our family now.”

Slit stared at him, eyes narrowing. He had heard this before though not in so many words, Slit thought, as he touched his scar.

_Mum doesn't want to hurt you, bae. Mum just wants to keep the bad men from stealin you. It'll only hurt a bit, promise..._

The Ace's gray eyes looked him over thoughtfully. “This pain sticks with you and it's one you'll never forget. Can't be helped. Everything in life hurts, eventually. That's the important thing to remember about being a War Boy, Slit. Life's gonna hurt you, but you're gonna keep going, keep trying. We don't give up.” The Ace clasped Slit's shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “Now, ain't no one here gonna hurt you on purpose, unless you don't work, except this one time.”

Slit was guided to a flimsy wheeled table, and he laid face-down. Despite having been wiped clean, the surface still stank of sweat and fear and Slit felt himself tense up.

“Don't be moving none, got it? Hang onto the table.”

A small hand slipped into his, and gripped it tightly; Slit turned his head and found himself eye-to-eye with Nux. Those blue eyes were wide with reverence at the momentous occasion.

“You can do it,” Nux whispered, and he gave Slit's hand a squeeze.

“Hang onto his left arm, Nux.” But the Ace's hands were holding him down, pinning him tight so he couldn't move anyway, and then the brand came down, hissing furiously. Although it burned him, searing him deep and to the core, Slit never once cried out.

 

The Ace congratulated Slit on his bravery as they walked away from the gloomy chamber, and as they left, Slit noticed a line of young boys herded down the corridor, waiting for the brand. The children were crying with fear as a yawning War Boy stood escort, his broad hands roughly pushing them into the tiny rock-cut chamber, one after another.

They went to a quiet place where the Ace and Nux helped him into the white. The pain of putting on the brand had been shocking, but it was nowhere near the amount of pain that Slit had already gone through; oddly, the pain of his burnt skin seemed distant, foreign, especially after a thick coating of ointment.

The Ace showed Slit some tricks on putting on the white himself; he smeared it expertly over his own body, though here and there Slit noticed that the Ace missed a few spots, like the little patch of bare skin behind his left ear. Nux helped Slit put on the white, and Slit could feel it cooling his burn while at the same time warming his body. It was a conundrum.

Anointed and ointmented, the white sealing him to his new life, Slit was left with Nux, who showed him around the shops before taking him to the mess hall.

War Boys were lining up for food, and Slit stepped forward to join the line.

“No, wait. Half-life Nobles go first. Then Drivers and Lancers. Then Revheads. Then us. Organics go last.”

Slit looked at Nux questioningly.

“That's because they're the best. The best deserve the best.”

Slit nodded acquiescence. He watched as they served the War Boys; the ones who went first in line had their bowls heaped up with double servings, and as the line went along, the ladles were giving out less and less.

By the time the War Pups went around for their bowl of mush, it had been thinned out with extra cooking water to make it stretch. Slit ate it ferociously, unconcerned about taste or quality, and when he was done, he was still hungry. Licking the bowl clean with the help of his fingers, Slit eyed the bowls of his fellow War Pups, but he could feel the Ace's eyes on him and he didn't dare do anything foolish.

Slit turned around on the stone bench, his hands on his knees, unable to watch the others eat. Some of the Drivers and Lancers were finishing their supper already, leaving in congenial groups, chatting about work, about duties, boasting about adventures on Bartertown runs. He sighed, but then the War Boy in the bodice stopped beside him.

Leaning over between him and Nux, she began a conversation with the Ace; some technical discussion about Lancers and fighting that he didn't follow, and as she spoke, she absently reached into her pocket and handed Slit two dried bars of food.

Not believing his good fortune, Slit ate them down as fast as he could, licking the crumbs off his hands. When he looked up for strange War Boy again, she was already gone.

 

Restlessly, Slit turned over on his side; some of the new boys were whimpering and crying, and he felt nothing but contempt for them, if they couldn't manage to hold in their pain.

“What's your name?”

The boy named Slit closed his mouth against the real name that ventured to the tip of his tongue, and then he closed it away, sealing it tight to himself. “Slit. You know that.”

“My name is Nux.”

“Yeah. I know.” Slit looked around at the others, already dozing off, dug into the dry sand for warmth, and realized he couldn't sleep like that, not with his injury. He had to keep the wound clean, as much as possible.

“Now we're acquainted proper, that means you can share my blanket.”

“Don't need it.”

“It's cold at night.” Nux said reasonably. “You can't do sleep if you're too cold.”

Ignoring Nux, Slit turned over onto his stomach, flattening out the sand underneath him so it wouldn't be so stiff and lumpy. He rested his chin against his hands and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, there was a little movement and Slit felt the coarse-woven fabric of the blanket go over his body, covering him. Small hands neatly tucked him in, careful to pool the blanket away from his wound, and he felt Nux moving in closer, not enough so that they were touching, but just enough so they could share the blanket comfortably.

Nux was warm, but Slit tensed when the other boy's arm brushed his by accident.

The pain kept Slit up for most of that night.

*****

As always, Nux woke early, before the slumbering War Tower woke, before the metallic ringing and grinding of work began. In an hour, two hours, maybe, the shops would start to open; conversations would begin, clipped and terse directions shouted over the roar of machinery. Someone would be starting a new project, testing an engine salvaged out of the waste; someone would be beating a crumpled panel back into shape. He'd go to his job in the shops, counting nuts and bolts, organizing tools, picking up after scraps and bits, cleaning up any refuse.

Nux slipped out of bed, tucking the rest of the blanket around Slit, who was fast asleep, his jagged scar making his expression grim in repose. Nux tiptoed out from the pile of War Pups, careful not to step on anyone with his boots. The substitute trainer slept at the edge of the nest; the Ace wasn't due back for another day. The War Rig crew and its escort always got a day's rest after Bartertown runs.

Dusting himself off, Nux silently walked out into the warren.

Like a little white shadow Nux made his way around the empty shops, peering at dismantled engines, looking under open hoods. Rightful heir to the kingdom of chrome and steel around him, Nux wandered, the young lord in his demesne, dispensing justice and honor, righting what he found awry. He sanded off a bit of rust from a carburetor, turned a patched water tank over to expose a missed crack, sorted a handful of old and new sparkplugs so that the defective ones were obviously separated. Half-finished work all around, stacked with potential, and feeling for his new hex key, Nux dreamt of a day when he'd run his own Revhead crew, earning parts and pieces for the best car in the Citadel.

There wasn't as much to see or do today; without the Half-life Nobles riding herd on the Drivers and their crews, work had slowed down. When the Half-life Nobles were gone, it was like a little holiday for everyone. On a whim, Nux headed toward the Lancer's workshop to check out the work on the thundersticks.

Before he came close enough to go inside, he heard the sound of scuffling boots on metal, and carefully, Nux positioned himself in the deep shadow by the blackened frame of the doorway, soot-stained from the hands of many Lancers touching it as they went in and out of the shop.

The air of the Lancer's shop smelled faintly of fuel and gunpowder and sweat.

Pale morning light from an airshaft poured down over two figures struggling together. One had to be The Ace. His back was to Nux, but Nux recognized him immediately. The other War Boy was Furiosa; she was unmistakable, and the two were grappling on a narrow metal platform. Nux noted that it was made of two truck ramps welded together and anchored to the floor, probably to simulate the top of the War Rig. All Nux could hear was their breaths, harsh and labored, and the metal creaking of the ramp under their feet.

“Your feet. Furiosa, watch your feet.” The Ace said softly before he suddenly stopped, though without letting go of her shoulder and her wrist. She was backed up to the end of the ramp and Furiosa looked behind herself, startled at how close she was to the edge.

“Again.” Furiosa pulled herself free angrily, her voice low. “Always the same problem.” 

They spoke softly, and Nux leaned forward, straining to hear.

“You can't win against me the way you're tryin to now. You're light and you ain't strong enough; wouldn't be too hard for me to push you back and back til you fell right off. You can't fight a man like a man.”

“Then what's the point of this exercise, Ace?”

The Ace sat down on the ramp and gestured for Furiosa to sit too. After a brief moment of hesitation, she joined him, her mouth sullen.

“Look.” The Ace made a fist, and even from his hidden vantage point, Nux could see the contours of the heavy muscles of his arm.

Furiosa made a fist herself and put her arm up, next to the Ace's, and Nux silently agreed; there was no possible way that Furiosa could ever match the Ace. Even among War Boys, few could match the Ace in bulk.

“I know. I'll never be that strong...”

“Ain't a matter of being strong or not. Don't you remember what you've learned so far?”

“'Use your environment.'” Furiosa shrugged. “Right now being a Lancer is fine. I just have to make the thunderstick go where it's supposed to go. But what if I'm not with my ride? What if there's nothing to use? If I don't have a weapon or–”

“Use your head.” The Ace tapped his blackened forehead. “You're a Lancer. You know every shift and turn of your ride. You know your Driver's mind. Think about how to use that shift against someone else. Look for their balance points. Everybody's gotta keep their feet, somehow. Weak points, balance...same stuff you think about when you're out on the perch or in the basket or up top, you use in a fight.”

“That's why you want me to watch my feet...”

The Ace nodded. “Keep half a mind on your footwork, and the rest on how to knock someone off their feet, and you'll get the better of most anyone, no matter how strong.” 

Furiosa sighed. “Yes. That's good advice. Let's try again.”

“Sure, but first...” The Ace cleared his throat and raised his voice fractionally. “Nux. I can see your boot in the doorway. Get over here.”

Startled, Nux nearly jumped out of his skin. Guiltily, he made his way over, horrified that he had been caught.

“Didn't know we had an audience,” Furiosa said wryly, leaning against her knees.

“So that's where you go when you wake up early. You go skulking around the shops?”

Standing before the Ace and Furiosa, Nux glared at his offending boot. “Yes, Ace.” 

“You been doin this long?”

“Yes, Ace.” 

“Anyone else know about it?”

“No, Ace.”

“How come?”

“Dunno,” Nux muttered, flustered.

There was a shrewd look in the Ace's eyes, and he leaned forward, studying Nux's downcast face. 

“Nux. Are you the one who's been going around fixin stuff? Cuz last week, I heard that someone reassembled a two-stroke motorcycle engine overnight.”

“Um.” 

“And a couple months ago, there was some fightin over a reed valve because the Driver wanted leather, and someone put it together using patch rubber. Don't happen to know anything bout that, do you, Nux?”

“Uh.”

Furiosa nudged the Ace with her elbow. “Ace, I have an idea. Maybe we should make a trade with Nux. Silence for silence?”

The Ace fixed his fierce gray eyes on Nux, and Nux trembled, wondering what his punishment would entail. If he'd have to give up his prestigious shop job for something mediocre, like working in the kitchen stirring vats of fermenting beans and greens, or serving the Organic Mechanic indefinitely. If he'd get kicked out of Lancer training and busted down to no more than an Organic, sent out to work the farms. If...

The Ace sucked in a long breath, nodding to himself. “Well, maybe that's not too bad of a trade.” He took Nux by the shoulders. “You hear me, Nux? Silence for silence.”

“Yeah. I hear you, Ace.” Nux felt he could breathe again; he had been let off easy. The Ace hadn't even ordered him to stop his morning wanderings.

Furiosa took a bar of food from her pocket and handed it to Nux. “Something to help you remember your word.”

Surprised, Nux took it and stashed it away for later.

“If you're gonna watch, go do something useful with yourself. Go bring those practice lances over, the two short ones,” the Ace said. “Furiosa, stop feedin the pups all the time. You're gonna go short when we do a long run, if you keep that up.”

Nux scrambled to grab the practice lances, and as he did so he heard Furiosa's reply.

“I don't get that hungry. Besides, I can't hold onto that stuff forever; it goes bad.”

*****

A plate of cooked lentils, a generous portion of fresh greens, golden stewed pumpkin, and a small, sweet glass of warm milk that she licked clean. They were even given a big bottle of water each, more water than she had ever held in her hands in her lifetime. After that first meal, it was the first time in a long time that Angharad could remember not feeling hungry.

The brand still burnt her; after they were brought up, the girl War Boy had taken them to a festering, fire-lit chamber deep inside the tunnels for the branding before escorting them across heavily armed bridges that swayed with each step.

Angharad prided herself in not crying. Capable hadn't either, not making more than a choked-back moan as the red-hot brand came down. 

It hadn't been anywhere near the worst pain a person could suffer. 

Even crossing those shivering, windswept bridges barely elicited fear, though but for the girl War Boy's hard hand tight on her wrist, she might have easily grabbed Capable and fought her way out to a different kind of freedom.

They were taken to a chamber where their heads were carefully shorn smooth and they were washed and given new clothing, plain and unadorned. They put on the white shifts while still damp from the bath and curiously, Angharad touched the smooth bald skin of her skull. 

Everything of their past was taken away to be discarded, though here Angharad and Capable had not argued or felt any particular sentiment; the less that reminded them of the filthy slaver's shed in Bartertown, the better. Let those tawdry rags be torn and burnt, consigned to ruin and erased from the face of the earth; that would be for the best.

Their wounds were tenderly anointed by two young boys; Angharad was almost completely certain they were deaf-mutes.

Afterwards, they briefly met their new master; he seemed kind enough, a man who perhaps in his youth had been tall and strong and handsome, with a broad generous face and a long mass of graying brown hair that had been streaked blond by the punishing sunlight. He didn't say much to them, just some formal words welcoming them to his family, before they were escorted away.

They were brought to a small dormitory and locked in. The room was long and narrow, and there were high windows carved out of rock that let in the light but were too tall to see out of and too narrow to climb out of.

There were four beds, more like carved stone benches softened with some thick woolen blankets, but only one of them was filled; a girl who was lying with a book, her white shift bunched around herself awkwardly, her short flaxen hair a halo of light around her pale face. She laid in the shaft of diffuse sunlight, turning pages slowly.

Capable gave her hand a squeeze, and Angharad stepped forward.

“I'm Angharad. This is Capable.”

There was a pause in the rate of page turning, and disinterested eyes slipped over the spine of the book, peering out from behind a wall of leather-bound paper.

“The Dag.”

“Pardon me. The...what?”

“That's my name. My name is The Dag.”

The eyes disappeared from view. Pages continued turning, a slow crisp sound of paper. 

Wordlessly, Angharad and Capable exchanged a look as they settled into their new lives.

 

They shared a blanket; the stone bed was narrow, but they were both thin, gangly and gawky, tall for their ages but with little flesh on their bones. In the other bed across the room from them, the Dag muttered to herself in the darkness, incoherent words lost to the distance.

The moon had not yet risen and the clean darkness of the room felt somehow as stifling as the War Rig's hold, where the unnatural night had choked them with the scents of men and machines and metal.

Angharad drew Capable closer, careful not to touch the burning mark of Capable's brand.

“What do you think he wants from us?” Capable whispered.

“What do you think any man wants from us?” Angharad said softly, and against her shoulder, she could feel the slow trickle of Capable's tears, despite her silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Slit had a job now, a boring, trivial one minding the lifts as the daily patrols went in and out. Life settled into an easy schedule; work and training, punctuated by regular meals. Quickly forgotten were the days of starvation and pain; it was easily and readily lost, thrown away in favor of this new life, raised high.

Slit learned the names of his cohort; Button, Morsov, Nux, and Notch; he trained, ate, and slept with these boys. There was another crowd of boys that the Ace minded as well, a bigger group more than twice the size of his cohort. The Ace mostly supervised their work allotment around the Citadel and made sure they were fed and rested, but didn't train them himself. Slit never bothered learning their names; none of the future Lancers did. Those boys were merely Organics, servile, and would never amount to more than running odd jobs; working the farms, preparing and cooking food, tending to the ill and injured, collecting waste, chasing down an occasional loose blood bag.

The cohort had a few hours training every day. Some days the Ace would come to the practice shop early before they arrived and disable the engine; it would be different every time and they'd spend a few hours at work finding and fixing the problem. Other days they would practice Lancer techniques, a whole library of concepts on balance, weight distribution, and coordination. There were days that the Ace didn't even turn on the car; they would practice at making both hands dominant, jabbing with practice lances, firing unloaded weapons, working with screws and bolts and tools, building the ambidexterity that could save them on the Fury Road where a Lancer's greatest gift was the ability to fight and work with both hands equally, so that it didn't matter what side of the rig they were on.

Seeing Nux so equally dexterous that it was hard to know which hand he favored (though Slit thought perhaps it was the left) had made Slit work harder, trying to build the kind of coordination that could allow him to access any corner of an engine with either hand, or to fight and shoot equally well with both hands.

As Slit watched today's training, he made a very real effort of holding back his thoughts as Nux climbed onto the practice car. Even the way the boy mounted the vehicle was uninspired; there had to be other ways to get up top other than the conventional climb up the window frame or directly onto the Lancer's basket out back. 

The Ace tapped the pedals in sequence, sending the car through a random series of motions, and he watched with sharp eyes as Nux clung to the vehicle.

Churning, the motor of the practice car growled and suddenly the vehicle gave a shake, flipping Nux off. Instinctively, Nux curled up into a ball and landed in the soft deep bed of sand dug around the practice car.

“Nux! What did I tell you?”

“'Rule of three, Nux! Three limbs on the car at all times! Two feet and one hand or two hands and one foot! This isn't the War Rig! Car don't have as stable a platform! Even then, always the rule of three!'” Nux quoted as he shook off the sand with a grin, dusting himself off. 

The other War Pups giggled nervously, but Slit scowled.

The Ace snarled. “So why didn't you do it?”

“I wanted to see what would happen if I fell. I've been practicing falling.”

Slit's mouth closed in a tense line. Nux was making excuses, he thought. That had been purely a mistake; Nux had been honestly surprised when the practice car dipped and tossed him.

“You really think you'll make Lancer by falling? Out on the road, there ain't always soft sand to fall on. You stick to your ride, Nux. You don't wanna end trashed or dead. Ain't no Valhalla for Lancers who lose their grip.”

Slit crossed his arms, shaking his head faintly in disdain.

“Slit!” The Ace's cold eyes turned to him. “You think you can do better?”

“Yeah.”

“Get on up then.” With a huff of frustration, the Ace reset the car to neutral, so that Slit could climb aboard. Instead of climbing up via the window, Slit dove in through the passenger window and came up through the top door. Slit settled himself on the hood, positioning himself so that the hypothetical Driver could see around him.

“Goin for the perch? The basket?”

Slit shook his head.

“You know what you're doin,” the Ace said skeptically. “All right, let's get on with it.” 

The Ace hit the pedals and the car roared to life under Slit's body. Slit found it simple to hang on; there were handholds and grips all over if one knew where to look for them, and he turned himself so that he was flat against the hood, the tips of his boots dug into the deep well of the windshield. One elbow was braced into a little dent on the hood that was almost too subtle to see, and as the car swung under him, he shifted his weight easily with it, pantomiming the toss of a lance, first with one hand, then the other.

After a long sequence of maneuvers, the car suddenly jerked to a stop, but his feet kept him from sliding off, and Slit steadied himself with one hand along the side of the car.

“Good, very good.” The Ace was smiling, pleasantly surprised. “See, Nux? You could learn from Slit here.”

Nux's eyes widened, but he said nothing as Slit rolled off the hood, wiping his dusty hands.

“All right, that's enough for today.” The Ace reset the practice car before turning it off, and the engine shut down with a whine. “Time to get back to your jobs.”

Notch left first, ducking out nervously as if hoping not to get noticed. Button left after a quick word with Morsov, and then Morsov, who hung in the doorway for a moment before the Ace pointed for him to go. As Nux was about to leave, the Ace beckoned him back.

“Nux, I want you to show Slit to the shops; he's going to be working with you from now on. You're responsible for teaching him.”

“But Ace!”

The Ace gave Nux a glare. “You fancy a turn mindin the Treadmill Rats?”

“No, Ace.” Nux bowed his head, ashamed.

“Then you got a new workmate. Make sure you train him proper. And straighten up the pedals before you go.” 

“Yes, Ace.”

The Ace left them as Nux began to order the pedals that controlled the practice car. On/off, accelerate, forward tilt, back tilt, right, left...

“It's your own fault,” Slit muttered as he knelt to coil the connecting cables neatly as Nux rearranged the pedals. “You shouldn't be careless up there like that. He saw you take both hands off the ride two times in a row and then waited for you to do it again before he dumped you on your backside.”

“I know.”

“If you know, you shouldn't mess up.” 

“I won't.” Nux gritted his teeth.

*****

Together they cleaned up the mess of an oil change together; the old catch basin had cracked and spilt oil everywhere. An hour later, Nux had to leave; it was time for the meeting.

“Shouldn't I come too?”

“No, you can't come. You look too...” And here, Nux gestured, tracing the outline of Slit's scar against his own face, leaving a faint smear of engine oil on his cheek.

“Ugly?”

“No, distinctive. So you can't come or he'll remember you. He can't tell us apart unless we have something on us that he'll remember, so Notch never goes either because of his ear. It's all right, I can do it. Me 'n Morsov 'n Button take turns and this time it's my turn. Besides, you don't know what you're supposed to do at the meeting.”

“Where are you going? Who are you talking about?”

“Can't say.” 

“What's with all the secrets?” Slit glared at him, and he grabbed a hold of Nux's shoulder, giving him a sharp shake. “Why can't you tell me?”

“Sorry, Slit.” Nux slipped out of Slit's grip, running out of the shop, dodging War Boys as he scrambled to get to the connecting bridge in time. Better to be early than late, he thought. It was a long run through the Third Tower to the Immortan's Tower; whoever got there last was always yelled at and besides, waiting gave him time to gauge the mood of the situation. Hopefully it wouldn't be too bad today.

 

“I know you got things you wanna tell your big brother Corpus.” Corpus looked down at the half dozen War Pups gathered around him from his leather-padded seat, customized to his malformed body. “Tell me what they've been saying around the shops. What are the Half-life Nobles doing? The Drivers? The Lancers? Tell me everything.”

Nux kept his mouth shut and his eyes downcast, shifting very carefully on his feet; he was tired from standing at attention for so long; they had been kept waiting for hours already in the cold, damp room, the burbling sound of water echoing through the vast chamber. No one liked the meeting. Despite the fact that it gave them brief access to the Immortan's Tower and occasionally, a distant glimpse of Immortan Joe if one were lucky, it was a miserable experience as Corpus went down the line interrogating each and every one of them.

Say nothing, do nothing, mention nothing of value. There was a code of silence among War Pups and War Boys alike, and no matter how many grudges one held against someone no one ever said anything bad about anyone else to Corpus Colossus, not if they could help it. 

“Come on, pups, I know you've got something interesting for me. Be good and I'll get you some extra at supper, how's that?”

Nux thought of the Ace briefly, but quickly banished the thought. However he felt about the day's training session, he couldn't traitor the Ace; War Boys who got traitored in these meetings often met terrible, brutal ends, and it was a bad day for the War Pup who ratted him out; they were too little to go under the wheels, but a lot of other bad accidents could happen around the War Tower. No training dispute was worth that.

Then he thought of Furiosa, but remembered all the times she had given him a little extra after supper. About how she had offered to trade silence for silence and even gave him food. He couldn't traitor her either.

Better to be hungry and alive than full and dead, Nux thought.

“There were extra sunflower seeds in the mush yesterday,” said a War Pup standing beside him, one of the Organics that worked on the farms, and carefully Nux schooled his expression, wincing internally as Corpus lashed out at the boy.

“Stupid, stupid! You're all a bunch of mediocre fools! What makes you think I care about that? Being this useless, you'll never amount to anything! Tell me, did any of the War Boys go coward on the Bartertown run? Did anyone try to steal from Immortan Joe? Hear about anyone thinking of traitoring Immortan Joe?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“No big brother Corpus,” the same War Pup said, and Nux gave him a little shove and a darted the boy a glare, trying to get it through. Best not to say anything at all, he thought, meeting the War Pup's eyes, as if somehow that would get the message through.

“Who's in charge of you, War Pup?” Corpus snarled, and Nux looked away; that War Pup was obviously new to this, too young and too naïve to hide his terror.

“The...the Ace?”

“Who? Speak up.”

“The Ace!”

“I'm the boss of you all, and don't you forget it,” Corpus snarled. “Tell me, who's in charge of you?”

“The Ace?” The War Pup squeaked.

Nux clenched his teeth, unable to watch, as Corpus Colossus jerked his seat lower so he could grab the War Pup by his throat.

“Say it! Say it loud! I'm the boss of you! I run the War Tower!”

“Y-you're the...the...”

Just then, Rictus Erectus arrived, drawn by the sound of Corpus shouting, and Nux knew this could only get worse. He quickly looked down, trying not to draw any attention. Trying to keep his breathing calm and his face smooth of expression, trying not to tremble despite feeling colder by the minute. Trying not to think about the time Corpus had Rictus throw a War Pup over the edge into the waste. He hadn't been there to see it, but Morsov saw it happen and swore it was true.

Disgusted, Corpus pulled back as Rictus entered, jacking his seat back up to its original higher position. The other War Pup was crying feebly, choking on his sobs. 

“What about the Revheads? What have they been doing? Anyone thinking to run away? What's the Organic Mechanic doing these days?”

Nux shrugged, and the other War Pup whimpered, crying so hard that the white dripped off his face. 

“Rictus! Grab that War Pup and hold him upside-down.”

Nux looked up just in time to find himself in Rictus' grip and he bit back a cry of fear as Rictus swung him up into the air, flipping him and holding him aloft by his ankles with an iron grip.

Jangling, his tools quivered in their holsters, but the loose hex key fell out of his pocket with a bright metallic clink.

Curious, Rictus swiped the hex key, pocketing it before Corpus could notice, all the while holding Nux upside-down. Rictus looked Nux in the eyes quizzically, giving him a shake to see if anything else would fall out, but Nux clung to his tool pockets, praying he wouldn't lose anything else.

“Rictus! No! Not that one! The other one!” Corpus shouted, pointing. “The other one! Stupid... Bah, just put him down. Set him down gentle. Gentle! Don't damage the assets! Meeting's over. Get out of my sight, you pack of insolent, incompetent, miserable little curs...”

 

It was dark by the time Nux came back, hungry and exhausted. He was the last one back, making sure the other younger boys had gone ahead of him so that everyone made it back to the War Tower.

To his surprise, Slit was waiting for him on the other side of the bridge, sitting in deep shadow just out of sight of the bridge guards.

“You missed supper,” Slit said simply. He put his arm around Nux's shoulder, and it was at that moment that Nux realized he was limping.

Ducking onto the warren together, Slit half-carried him into the closest room, which was the Lancer's workshop. It was empty at this hour, and through the airshafts that let in the chill night air, Nux could hear the metal creaking of the windmill above making the power that lit the room.

They climbed onto a stone bench, but Slit didn't take his arm away, and gratefully, Nux leaned against Slit's shoulder.

“How come you're limping?”

Nux shook his head, fending the question off with one of his own. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Asked Morsov. He told me everything. About the meeting. And the War Pup that got tossed over the edge. And...the giant baby man. Corpus whateverus. Rictus?”

Nux laughed and as the tension drained out of him, to his horror he suddenly found himself crying, his tears streaking the black onto the white, making muddy smears of gray over his cheeks.

Slit said nothing, just squeezed Nux's shoulders tight as Nux cried himself dry. Nux wiped his tears with his shop rag, leaving dabs of engine oil on his face.

Slit sighed. “You could have told me.”

“Didn't...didn't have time.”

“I would have gone for you.”

“You can't. He'd remember you, and single you out. Punish you somehow, punish you real bad. It's safer this way, for everyone.”

“I'm not afraid.”

“Yeah. I know. But it's not about being brave.” Nux wiped his face with the backs of his hands. “It's about not catching his eye and about having the control to keep your mouth shut and survive. No matter what he says or what he does.”

And here, Nux stretched out his legs, rolling up his pants.

Black-blue bruises stained the flesh of his ankles and calves, and Nux could see the mark of Rictus' individual fingers on his legs.

“Did he do this to you?” Slit said, his voice low and full of an unusual animosity, but Nux just shook his head.

“No. He can't really hurt any of us. He's not strong enough. It's nothing,” Nux went to turn his cuffs down, but Slit stopped him.

“It'll bother you worse if you don't rub it.” Slit put his hands onto the bruise, kneading the injured flesh. 

“Ow, I don't want...ow, ow, that hurts, Slit. Stop. Ow.”

“It'll make it better if you do this.” Slit carefully kneaded the sore and aching flesh, and while it hurt, sometimes nearly unbearably so that Nux flinched from Slit's touch, some of the bruise seemed to recede as Slit worked.

“Where'd you learn that?”

Slit shrugged. “Doesn't matter. But it makes the blood move around better. Breaks up the bruise.” He sat back, carefully unrolling Nux's pants so that the injury was covered.

They sat silent for a moment, and then Slit looked at him.

“You hungry?” Slit dug into a pouch. It looked new; he must have picked it up somewhere, and Slit pulled out a small canister, something that looked like it had been scavenged from the Lancer's workshop. “Saved you some mush.”

“Slit. You didn't have to...”

“Yeah. I know.” Looking away, Slit handed him the canister of mush; it was mostly the good stuff, not very wet at all; Slit must have drunk down the cooking water and saved him most of the rest.

“Here. I got something for you too.” Nux took out a dried bar of food he had been saving. It was mostly intact in its cloth wrapper, and only a little bit crumbled around the edges.

Surprised, Slit took it.

They sat and ate, taking their time, savoring the novelty of their situation. The mush tasted metallic and sharp, like gunpowder.

“I heard this is what Drivers and Lancers do when they're on long runs or when they're at war,” Nux said. “Sharing rations, eating together. Fixing up their car together.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They're the best of mates, a Driver and his Lancer. They do everything together. Build, work, fight...they even sleep side by side every night before a big run so that they don't get separated.” Nux smiled dreamily to himself. “I want to do that someday.”

“As if anyone would take someone like you. Your grip is too weak and your balance is bad.”

“That was an accident.”

“Careless.”

“Accident.”

“Mediocre!”

“Accident!”

The two burst out laughing, and thoughtlessly, by habit, Nux his left hand in his pocket and felt for his hex key.

“Oh.” Suddenly Nux recalled its absence.

“What's wrong?”

“Lost my hex key.”

“Have another accident?”

“No.” Nux hugged his knees to himself, pressing his face against his knees, feeling grossly foolish for having been so attached to the little, insignificant thing. The Ace himself had brought it back to him from Bartertown. It was the first tool that he had that was brand new and not re-purposed from a scavenged, broken tool. “Stolen.”

“You want me to get it back for you? Who took it? Was it Morsov? I'll fight 'em and make 'em give it back.”

“No, it wasn't Morsov. It's gone for good. No way of ever getting it back,” Nux looked up at Slit, managing a smile at the older boy. “It's okay, Slit. I don't need it. I just liked it because it was new and shiny and chrome.”

“You can have mine.” Slit dug around in his pockets and pulled out his own hex key. He offered it to Nux.

“Really? Are you sure?” Nux took the hex key and held it up in his hand, turning it so that it glinted silver in the shop light. “It's yours...”

“Don't really care that much about tools anyway,” Slit muttered, and then Nux threw his arms around Slit's neck, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

“Slit.” Nux smiled. “You're the best.”

Slit ventured an awkward, hesitant pat to Nux's shoulder before Nux let him go.

“And d-don't you forget that.” 

*****

“Don't forget the library, Capable.” Angharad held up her hands above her, as if she could sketch the outline of a building with her fingers.

“Oh, of course. Our home would have a grand library. The grandest in the land. With books on wooden shelves, all stacked to the ceiling. Ten stories, of course, just for the books, and the big glass windows would let in the light of the sun so that you could read every day and not be bored, because there would be so many books. And there would be electricity so you could read at night or during a sand storm. And it would smell like clean dust and old books, and there would be chairs and tables made of smooth carved wood everywhere to sit and study, and you could sit at a different place every day if you wanted to. Of course, all the chairs would be big enough so that we could both sit together if we liked and we could run our hands over the beautiful wooden arms and they would feel so silky and lovely.”

“What kind of books are there?”

“All sorts,” Capable closed her eyes, as if she could see it already. “Books in every language, even the ones no one can read anymore. Books about plants and animals, books with pictures, books without pictures, books about bridges and railways and roads and highways and the structural integrity of reinforced masonry. Books that tell you how to do things like build a house or design a graywater reclamation system.”

“And there should be books about people. Books about Before. Books about how people lived, what they ate, what they thought about. Books about their parents and their children, and those that came before them and their dreams for those who will come after them. Books about their histories, the stories they told each other about the past. Books about culture. Books about paintings and sculptures. About society. Books with ladies in their pretty dresses of all colors and men with suits and top hats and they're all dancing to the liveliest music you ever heard, all on extinct instruments.”

Capable giggled. “As if you'd wear a hat somewhere other than on top of your head! And those books would be about their lives and their journeys, about how they lived in terrible places full of suffering and left on grand voyages far across the oceans, leaving their families behind, looking for new lives...”

“And the oceans!” Anghard quickly changed the subject. “The books about the oceans and the fish in the sea.”

“Angharad, do you suppose a fish is like a lizard? And the sea is like the dunes with all the moving waves of sand, except the waves are water...”

“I saw a picture of the ocean once,” Angharad said. “In my grandfather's library. The ocean was...a big place, bigger than anywhere you can imagine. There was a rig in it, a giant floating rig with little men and women all aboard and the rig was coming to land. Even though the rig was huge, white and grand, everything was so tiny compared to the ocean, even the land. It seems to me that one could argue that it was as big as the waste or bigger.”

“Could you drink it?”

“That I don't know. Perhaps?” 

“I bet everyone fought over it and drank it up and that's why it's gone.”

“No, it's salty.” Startled, Capable and Angharad both sat up and looked over at the Dag. She had set her book aside and was looking at them. “The ocean is salty, as salty as tears.”

“How do you know?”

“Read about it,” the Dag swung her legs over the side of her bed, looking at them as she kicked her bare heels lightly against the stone. “It's in this book. A man dies falling into it.”

“Wish I could have an ocean right now,” Capable said wryly. 

“Could fancy seeing some people falling into it?” Angharad met her eyes, amused.

“Ocean's a terrible place,” the Dag grinned, all teeth and no humor. “Full of unspeakable beasts and unmentionable monsters, lying in wait to snap you up.” With her hands, she made the motion of a clawed beast, grasping at the air as if to rend and tear.

“Tell us more about the ocean.” 

“Listen.” The Dag picked up the book and flipping to the right page, began to read: 

_Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began._

“Sounds absolutely horrid.” Angharad looked over to the Dag, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Please, read us more.”

“All right.”

_Consider all this; and then turn to the green, gentle, and most docile earth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a strange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half-known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle, thou canst never return!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dag is quoting _Moby Dick_.


	3. Chapter 3

Eyes open, awake early, Nux found the rest of his cohort awake too, ready for the momentous day. Quickly and quietly leaving the other War Pups behind with the substitute trainer, The Ace led the five future Lancers into the warren.

There was to be no wandering the shop this morning for Nux; he and his cohort had to ready themselves. A quick touch-up to make sure their heads were smooth, and then they put on more of the white, a heavier coating than usual, helping each other dress with splatters of the cold slurry. They artfully darkened their eyesockets with machine oil.

They watched as the early morning patrol left, lowered on the lifts in small groups, three cars and two motorcycles, and when it came to be their turn, the War Pups went down the lifts with a practice car, looking up in envy at the Driver and the Lancer on board.

 

Nux blinked as he looked down at the Wretched, as they peered up at him from below the elevated roadway, grotesques afraid to tread onto the dusty pounded road that led from the War Tower to the waste. Scanning the stink and squalor around him, Nux realized this was his first time out; he had never been down on the ground before, not that he could ever remember. He looked back up at the War Tower, at the vast monolithic pillar rising grand from the waste, at the great exposed mechanical heart of the shops, and the sight was so stunning, so impressive that he wondered how anyone could ever willingly want to leave it.

The Ace gathered the boys close, keeping them together. Today even the Ace had dressed up for the momentous day. Head darkened, forehead blackened, the Ace carried a heavy rifle slung over his shoulder. Rumor had it that it was borrowed from an Imperator; no ordinary War Boy, not even a Half-life Noble wielded a weapon so impressive.

It was unheard of for War Pups to leave the Tower, but the Ace had some new ideas about training, strange and unorthodox methods that seemed to be paying off; Button, the oldest of their cohort was only around five thousand days old and about to promoted a full five hundred days before most War Pups in the past had been ready to make the transition. And that wasn't even taking into account Furiosa, who had risen through the ranks meteorically, promoted faster than any War Boy in memory. Already she had been a Lancer for over a hundred days. Coupled with influence in and around the War Tower's rank and file, it seemed to Nux that there was nothing that the Ace couldn't do.

Imperator Acosta stopped by for a word with the Ace. Nux could barely believe it; he didn't know that the Imperator himself would be coming. He and his fellow War Pups stood at attention quietly, straining to hear every word. Acosta was the highest of the the War Boys; he drove the War Rig and gave all the orders, hand-picking his crew of Half-life Nobles; besides that, he had gone through the initiation and survived; he was a War Boy of War Boys. 

Having never seen Imperator Acosta up close before, Nux felt giddy jolts of excitement at glimpses of the man's scarred lips, the V8 etched onto the skin of his chest; those were signifiers of the elite status that Acosta had earned surviving the ordeal in the waste. This was a man who had lived and died and lived again. Nux unconsciously touched his own smooth mouth in wonder.

“War Pups ride on the support truck. You're to ride with them and make certain there are no losses, Ace,” the Imperator said to the Ace, and the Ace nodded, patting the rifle. 

“Sure thing, boss.”

 

The War Pups rode in the bed of the support truck, peering out from between big barrels of sloshing fuel, from over the tops of fat fragrant tires, clutching the hard geometrical rubber treads, too excited for words. Riding the support truck was like an opportunity to ride the War Rig in miniature, with Imperator Acosta driving and the Ace standing behind the cab acting Lancer, one hand on the frame and the other gripping the rifle. It was a short drive to the training grounds, a big flat expanse between the Citadel and Bullet Farm where the land, pinched between two powerful neighbors, was safe, free from possible attack. The morning patrol had already swept through, chasing off any scavengers who might have grand ideas of loitering or lying in wait. 

The training grounds were empty and clear but for the churned marks of tracks, and the sky was a pleasing iron gray, a deep bed of clouds keeping the sun from being too bright.

Black plumes of smoke rose from the Bullet Farm in the distance, the forges and foundries hard at work.

The support truck sat on bit of elevated ground over the level field, and the four training cars lined up, heavy junkers fortified and reinforced against collisions. It took a while to set everything up; the training lances and their charges were sorted out amongst the Lancers, Imperator Acosta gave detailed directions to the crews, and then two of the vehicles started up, one black and one silver chrome gray. The remaining crews were left to watch as the first two teams went out.

The boys gathered on the hood to watch. Imperator Acosta stood on the cab with his spyglass, and the Ace stood beside him, rifle at the ready.

There was no real formalism to the battle. The two cars took a formation lap to warm up, to give the Drivers a feel for the vehicle, and then suddenly the black made a move and they were at it, each car trying to flank the other, their Lancers hanging on, moving and changing positions to try to make an optimal spike. They moved in crisp counterpoint through the dust, missing each other by inches despite all the dents and divots from many training runs. Their Lancers held on despite the quickness and ferocity of their rides, and their Drivers took the cars through phenomenally sharp turns and maneuvers that Nux had only heard about but had never seen before.

“Look!” The black made a mistake and slammed against the silver. Their doors touched briefly, but the jolting collision sent the silver's Lancer's thunder stick flying. The silver's Lancer, however, managed to keep their grip on the hood. 

That was it, it was over; the black had won by default.

As the black sped off to gain enough distance to swing back and finish off the silver, the silver's Lancer banged the roof, yelling something down through the top door. Before the black could come around, the silver swung back. Slowing down briefly but not stopping, the Lancer leapt off the hood, landing in a brisk run. In a smooth motion, the Lancer picked up the fallen thunder stick and ran alongside the car briefly before pulling themselves back up onto the Lancer's basket. A second or two later, as soon as the Driver ascertained the Lancer was safely aboard, the Driver fanged it.

The boys cheered; that was an impressive recovery and put the silver back into the game.

“In reality, the explosive charge would have gone off from the impact of hitting the ground,” Slit muttered. 

“Maybe, maybe not,” Morsov replied.

“It would make more sense to have more thunder sticks mounted on the car. It's unrealistic to think that a Lancer would have only one at the beginning of a battle.”

“Shh!” Nux elbowed him.

And it really was getting to the good part; as the black roared back to gain position, the silver suddenly stopped mid-track and as the black flew by the stopped vehicle, the black's Lancer's thunder stick went wide, missing the silver, landing uselessly in loose sand. However, the silver's Lancer hefted the thunder stick high and spiked the black as it passed. The canister exploded in a splotch of white, hitting the back wheel, a killing blow.

Quick as that, and it was over. The silver and black both quickly collected their lances and the two cars roared back to line up near the support truck. The boys moved to pile off the hood and congratulate the winning crew, but the Ace growled at them, warning them with a glare, so they stayed put.

Bronzed with dust caked to their sweaty skin, the Lancers stepped out of their respective baskets as their Drivers dismounted.

As goggles and dust wraps came off, Nux recognized the Driver-Lancer crews; the black car was crewed by Tran and Dart, and the silver car was crewed by Coil and Furiosa. She was still catching her breath from that run alongside her ride.

The two teams made their way over as Imperator Acosta swung off the support truck to debrief them. It was a short discussion for the black car's crew, mostly about their failure to read the other vehicle's intentions; they were sent to scrub the white off their vehicle and to refuel both cars. The silver's crew listened as Acosta walked them through the finer points of their performance, pointing out where they could improve, and there was a tiny bit of praise for Furiosa at the very end of it, for that daring maneuver when she went off-vehicle, recovering from what normally would have been a disaster.

“Goes to show we make a great team. Real honor to be working with this War Boy Lancer,” Coil grinned and cheerfully slung his muscular arm around her shoulders. Coil's hand was still jittery from adrenaline, but he gave her a friendly squeeze to hide the tremor in his fingers. Stiffly, she returned the gesture, her smile tense, her hand cupping his bicep lightly, giving him a squeeze in return.

“Let that be a lesson, War Pups.” Acosta turned, addressing the boys gravely. Briefly, he caught Nux's eyes. “Trust and communication between a Driver and a Lancer is key to success in battle.”

 

After third practice, they ate their morning meal sitting in the bed of the support truck. The Ace had bars of dried food for them, a bar and a half each, good-sized ones, and it really felt like a holiday. The boys clustered around Coil, peppering him with questions; he had driven the best so far that day and not even the other two crews had been able to match him in skill.

“...Win was my Driver for 1229 days, up until 211 and a half days ago when he went out on a patrol with the day crew. Never really understood why he went without me.” Coil shook his head slowly. “Heard he was filling in on a routine run and didn't want to bother me because I wasn't on the rota, but that's just hearsay. Wish I knew what he was thinking.”

“What happened?” Button asked. Everyone there had already heard sketches of this story, but no one had heard it themselves directly from Coil. There were rumors that Coil had taken it hard; he almost turned down the promotion to Driver and even then spent a while turning down Lancer offers until the Half-life Nobles stepped in.

“A road warrior caught him out near the Powder Lakes. Right through neck,” Coil pantomimed. “We were best mates, Win 'n I, and there was nothing I could do to protect him. Couldn't even Witness him. Broke the nose of the guy running Lancer for him on that run; that War Boy didn't have eyes on.”

“Is that why it happened?” Morsov looked appalled. “Because the Lancer didn't have eyes on?”

“That's what I heard, but whatever the case, it felt better after punching the fool. That Lancer was busted back down to Revhead and is forever shop-bound. Had it been me, out there on the flats of the Powder Lakes, I would have taken the shot for Win.” Coil smiled sadly to himself. “Every day that I'm driving is a day that I wish he could see me, but you don't make Driver unless your Driver gets killed. Everyone jokes about it and thinks that'll be a good day because it means promotion, but until it happens, you won't know how well off you are, how good you have it. He was my best mate.”

“Is Furiosa your best mate now?” Notch wondered, listening in from behind Nux.

“Sure, hopefully soon, right?” Coil managed a cautious smile and Furiosa nodded, unable to reply, her mouth full of food. She patted him carefully on the shoulder with her free hand as she chewed, and Coil's eyes grew surprisingly warm, as if touched by the gesture.

Nux himself was sitting beside Furiosa, who sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Coil. Nux noticed that while she was making a very real effort to be friendly to Coil, she didn't seem to like being physically close her Driver. They were obviously a new crew, Nux thought, and he wondered how long it took for crews to form a tight bond, to become best mates and good friends. 

The more he observed, the more it seemed to Nux as though she were unused to the easy camaraderie of the War Boys. Then again, Furiosa had always been distant, even when she was briefly part of his cohort. It was a shame, Nux thought, for a Lancer so talented to have so few friends and allies.

He leaned against her, putting his arm around her back, and she tensed, her eyes darting sharply at him as he touched her.

“Um.” She swallowed down her bite of food and it seemed to him that perhaps she had relaxed a little, so he smiled up at her, trying to make her feel more at ease.

“How did you think of running off your ride to get the lance? Weren't you afraid you'd go under the wheels, running so close to your ride?”

She blinked, surprised to be addressed, and managed a little smile in return, putting her arm around him lightly, leaving a line of bronze dust along his back. “Of course not. We've practiced that maneuver before.”

“Really?” That hadn't occurred to Nux; it looked more like brilliant improvisation than a rehearsed piece. “How'd you come up with it?”

“You want to know the truth?”

“Sure.”

“I started doing it to stay awake. When the convoy's slowing down, it takes a while for the War Rig to stop all the way. So if I felt tired, I'd get off, run, and hop back on to get the blood going. A couple times, on and off before we stopped. That way when we came to full-stop, I was awake enough to help with unloading or with repairs. Besides, it's a dangerous time for the convoy.”

“Really? I thought it was being on the open road.”

“Really. Usually the engines are too hot and thirsty for a serious push, so if we're ambushed, there's not much we can do to outrun it. We'd have to stay and fight. There are places where the Imperator likes to stop that are easier to defend, but we can't always stop there because someone might have noted our habits. It's always something of a pursuit-and-interceptor game, transporting trade goods.”

Nux nodded; that he understood. He looked up at her, considering her expression, the way they spoke to each other.

“Furiosa, you don't remember me, do you?”

“Um.” Flustered, she looked away, and he could see her fingers twitching nervously.

“It's okay. I'm not really that distinctive, not like you. And there are a bunch of us but only one of you. And maybe you don't want anyone remembering you were a War Pup not that long ago.” Nux leaned his head against her shoulder. “But I remember you. Pretty sure I always will. Thanks for training me today. I learned a lot.”

She didn't reply, but she gave him a little squeeze, leaning down to rest her forehead against his for a moment, holding him close. It was fleeting; before he knew it she was slipping out from between him and Coil, hopping off the support truck with that easy Lancer's grace to go see to the silver car in preparation for third practice.

Nux touched his forehead; there was a bit of dust on his skin where she had touched him.

*****

_Now, in calm weather, to swim in the open ocean is as easy to the practised swimmer as to ride in a spring-carriage ashore. But the awful lonesomeness is intolerable. The intense concentration of self in the middle of such a heartless immensity..._

Angharad listened, and she could imagine herself in that dark, swaying sea, as wide as the waste, bobbing over the unknown depths, untold monsters and leviathans below her feet, the whale speared and entangled in a choking, killing line and there it lurked, out of sight, ready to spring.

It was the ninety-third day, counting from the arbitrary day they started counting, using the chapters of the book as a way to mark time. Every day the Dag would read them a chapter, and today was the ninety-third, called The Castaway.

The Dag's pale little heel tapped the stone side of the bed, and Angharad stared at it from her seat on the floor. Capable sat beside the Dag, peering over her shoulder as the Dag read about the little Slave Boy Pippin who was not worth nearly as much in value as a whale and who had accidentally been tangled up in the whale line after jumping out of the boat in fear, so that they had to cut the whale free, thus losing the prize.

Pippin, known as Pip, fearing the monstrous whales that the men hunted, had jumped a second time from the whale boat and fallen into the ocean, and so was being left behind by the stern Mister Stubb who had warned Pip that he would not save the boy had he jumped again. Mister Stubb had cast off, chasing after the whale, thinking Pip would be picked up by the other boats.

_But it so happened, that those boats, without seeing Pip, suddenly spying whales close to them on one side, turned, and gave chase; and Stubb's boat was now so far away, and he and all his crew so intent upon his fish, that Pip's ringed horizon began to expand around him miserably._

“What then?” Angharad wondered. “Is that the end of Pip? Does he die in the ocean?”

“No, there's more, not a lot more to this chapter, but more. Let me read...” Capable leaned over and placed her fingertip along the line to mark her reading.

_By the merest chance the ship itself at last rescued him; but from that hour the little..._

“Stop. Stop! Stop!” The Dag's voice jerked up into a shriek, and she pulled away, clutching the book to her heart, stumbling toward the other side of the room.

“The Dag? Are you all right?” Aghast, Capable stood, reaching for the Dag.

Angharad stood as well, showing the Dag her hands. “It's all right, the Dag. No one's going to hurt...”

And they all froze, hearing the lock turning in the heavy metal door.

Numbly, Angharad and Capable glanced at each other before arranging themselves quickly, sitting neatly, without touching, their eyes downcast and their hands out on their laps.

The Dag tucked the book away first under a loose pile of bedding before folding her hands together, staring at her tattooed fingers.

“What's all this racket about?” 

Despite her downcast gaze, Angharad could still tell that these were Imperators, leaders among War Boys. The most obvious visual distinction was the fact that these War Boys didn't wear the white clay on their skins, strutting around with unpainted skin. She confirmed her previous observations that they also had minimal scarification to denote their tribal alliances and there were no traces of old battle scars on their skin as did many of their War Boy subordinates. They wore few tools compared to the War Boys of the distant pillar and Angharad thought there had to be ritual significance to wearing the brand emblem around their hips; she had only seen it worn among the elites of the Citadel. None of the lower-caste War Boys she had initially observed wore it, but for the high command, like the Imperator who had finalized the sale in Bartertown. Certainly then, these were high caste War Boys of privilege.

Capable and Angharad exchanged a quick glance without moving their heads. They had prepared for this.

“We saw a spider.” Angharad stared at the War Boy's boot. It was black and shiny, and looked almost new. Yet another signifier of elite social status, she thought, in a world where many of the very young boys went without shoes.

“It was big and ugly and so, so scary,” Capable added, biting her lip for effect.

There were tears in the Dag's eyes, real tears, and the War Boy nodded, buying the ruse, before looking around for the offending insect. He was careful to keep his hands where they could be seen, to stay a respectful distance from the girls. Another War Boy held the door open, guarding the doorway. Bearded and grizzled, that one had his eyes fixed on the War Boy searching the room as if waiting for the man to screw up, too busy to even ogle the goods. So they had to run in pairs, Angharad thought, probably as neither of them as individuals were trusted not to damage the assets. And the pairs obviously had no trust between each other.

“Ah, there it is. The War Boy reached up and smashed the offending intruder on the wall, before licking the mess of insectile innards and chitinous shards off his palm. “You're safe now. Next time you just bang on the door if you want us to kill anything.”

The girls nodded silently, bowing their heads, waiting for the men to leave.

The metal door shut. Its well-oiled mechanism was silent, without even the slightest of creaks and Angharad heard the heavy sound of the bolt turning as they were locked back inside.

It would be a long wait after the War Boys had gone; the plan was that they would wait until the light coming through the window changed, afraid that any further sound they made would draw the War Boys back.

Angharad looked up; the Dag was still crying, silent meandering tears that flowed without cessation. Her nose was running too, but she made no attempt at sniffling or wiping.

Silently, Angharad padded over to the other side, and put her arm around the Dag gently. The Dag was like a creature of the old stories, a deer caught out in the dark forests of night, her slate blue eyes darting at Angharad in fear as Angharad eased her arm around those slender, trembling shoulders, shaking with tension.

They didn't need words for this, though Angharad ached for time to pass so that they could talk, could worry it out. But even here they could still see the shadow of boots under the metal door, and she knew they could not speak, not safely. So with the edge of a blanket, she wiped the Dag's face gently. 

Soon, Capable came over as well. Sitting down on the Dag's other side, Capable slipped her arm around the Dag as well and together, arms entwined, they cocooned the Dag in a little nest of safety.

The Dag's pale hair tickled the side of Angharad's face, but she didn't move, giving the Dag time to recover, to cry herself dry.

The Dag took a deep, shuddering breath.

 

Time passed, slow and silent. The trio fell asleep waiting for the War Boys to leave, and only woke when the bottom slot was opened hours later and trays of food were slid into the room.

However they felt, none of them ever needed coaxing for those meals, the sweet fragrance of the milk, the hearty plates that varied with the passing of time, what Angharad and Capable had decided were perhaps seasons. They ate every bite, licking the plates clean.

 

Afterwards, when they pushed the trays out of the briefly unlocked bottom slot, Angharad remembered the spider. Standing on the bed so that she could see the little discolored spot where it had ended its life for them, she apologized to it, for making it their scapegoat. The guilt was not a heavy burden but it was a burden all the same; the creature had its own genetic destiny that they were responsible for ending.

“I'm sorry, spider. Capable and the Dag are as well. Please understand that we too are trying to survive.” She laid her palm over the spot briefly, reverently, and then sat back down beside Capable.

The Dag sat across from them, her eyes deep in the book, and finally Angharad noticed; the Dag never read past the ninety-third. Even earlier this afternoon when they spoke of the ninety-third, there had been a certain tension to the Dag, a certain wariness. 

Angharad thought about her words; words were powerful things, and had to be chosen with care.

“The Dag. After the ninety-third, what happens?”

“'No, no! shame upon all cowards—shame upon them! Let 'em go drown like Pip, that jumped from a whale-boat. Shame! Shame!'”

Capable gave Angharad a knowing look; Angharad agreed. These were not the Dag's words, but the book's.

“Whatever happens to Pip, you can tell us,” Capable said reasonably. “After all, it's been a long time, centuries and centuries.”

“Which is to say generations upon generations,” Angharad added, converting to a common unit of measure in case the Dag had learnt a different measure of time. “So many lifetimes ago that everyone is already long dead.”

“'Pip? whom call ye Pip? Pip jumped from the whale-boat. Pip's missing.'”

Capable and Angharad sat together, puzzling it through silently. and then Angharad gestured for the Dag to come over, but the Dag shook her head, her beautiful eyes full of misery.

“Missing?”

“'One hundred pounds of clay reward for Pip; five feet high! Who's seen Pip the coward?'”

Angharad considered her words again, but this time chose a vocabulary that she thought the Dag would understand better, scanning her memory for the right phrases.

“The Dag. Isn't the awful lonesomeness intolerable? Wouldn't you want...to return to that verdant land? That insular Tahiti?” 

“The Dag's pushed off ages ago, ages beyond remembering. The Dag canst never return.”

There it was, flashes of the Dag interspersed with the text, and Angharad knew she was on the right track.

“But why, why not?”

“'The sea has jeeringly kept her finite body up, but drowned the infinite of her soul.'” 

So the Dag had ventured into places beyond the reach of Angharad's words, past the point where they had read together. Strange, lonesome places where she could no longer be reached, or at least thought she could not. But Angharad would not give up.

“But not completely. I know...the Dag is in there somewhere. Not just the words of your friend, Herman Melville Moby Dick, who has been a good companion all these long days.” 

“Don't say that. He's more than just friend, a companion.” And here the Dag closed the book, clutching it to her heart, and her long fingers stroked the leather-bound cover. “He's brother and sister and mother and father to me now. The only one who won't leave me, because I have him all in here.” The Dag touched her heart and her head.

And at those words Angharad could feel herself breathing again; that was the Dag, entirely.

“We won't leave you either.” Angharad said. “We wouldn't leave you to drown. You're with us now.”

“I'd turn the boat around myself,” Capable said, “And if Mister Stubb didn't like it, I'd punch him in the nose.”

“What if he's too strong?” The Dag looked at them curiously. “He's a man, isn't he? What if he knocks you over? Or hits you? Or...”

“Well, there are two of us and only one of him. I'm sure we could figure something out.” Capable gestured. “We could maybe hit him with the butt of the harpoon, just enough to knock him out, and then we'd get the men to row us back. Captain Ahab should know that Mister Stubb was willingly going to lose his assets. Pip might not be very costly, but given time he'd be a man and they are expensive to buy, especially trained ones who work hard.”

“Or call to one of the other whale boats to stop pursuit and pick up Pip, if Mister Stubb won't listen.” Angharad suggested, guiding and redirecting the flow of the conversation. “They missed Pip on accident, not intentionally.”

“I think we could get Ishmael and Queequeg on our side. If you can talk sense into one, you can get the other to come along.”

“Good point, Capable. I'd say we should talk to Queequeg first, because even though he's described as a savage cannibal with marks all over his skin, I feel like he is a kind and gentle soul, sharing his bed and his heart with Ishmael. I'm pretty sure he's the one that could be talked to most reasonably. Ishmael gets too melancholy sometimes and is rather pompous and silly. But really, whatever Queequeg does, Ishmael will follow.”

“Like when they are married.” 

“Just like that. Bosom friends. Ishmael could have said no, but he doesn't, despite their religious and cultural differences.”

“Bosom friends.” The Dag stood up, her arms tight around the book. “'In a countryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have seemed far too premature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage those old rules would not apply,'” and here, Angharad recognized the words; they were back in charted, familiar territory.

“I suppose that begs the question,” Angharad smiled. “Of which one of us is the simple savage.”

“Perhaps all of us.” Capable gestured, and it was a gesture that encompassed the girls, the room, and perhaps, all of humanity.

*****

Slit watched the line forming for supper. Occasional scuffles were expected; sometimes someone was knocked out of the line and had to fight for their place. Higher-ranked War Boys generally squabbled the least, though there were still fights among them from time to time, usually when someone thought they deserved a higher position. Whoever held that higher position had to accept the challenge and defend their place, or else lose it and yield to the challenger. He had seen some pretty amazing fights, though most were quick and brutal, often over before anyone even realized a fight had occurred.

About a third of the time the challenger won. Those odds seemed pretty good to Slit.

Slit had his eye on the front of the War Pup line. The standing order was currently Button, Morsov, Nux, himself, and Notch. He had muscled his way past Notch ages ago; mild-tempered Notch was only really ever bold on the car so the boy had given way to Slit without a whimper. Nux, he knew wouldn't give up so easily, but fighting Nux would be a blow to his own standing. The younger boy was so small and slight of build that it wouldn't be much of a challenge. 

So it was either Button or Morsov, and Button was big for his age, too big for Slit to chance and besides, rumor had it that Button would be promoted to War Boy in less than a dozen days. So it had to be Morsov, and it had to be soon, if Slit wanted to be at the front of the line of the War Pups, the best of his cohort.

Morsov was bigger than Slit, taller, more heavily built. Winning against Morsov would definitely increase his standing among everyone, Slit thought, maybe even the Ace. He might even be promoted sooner, if he could beat Morsov.

Slit scanned the mess hall. The Ace was already here, heading toward his fellow Half-life Nobles. The majority of Drivers and Lancers had just arrived, and Nux was talking with some Revheads, probably shop business.

Now was as good of a time as any, Slit thought, and he cracked his knuckles, straightening to his full height. Squaring his shoulders and loosening his muscles, shaking them out before hardening them, Slit was ready to fight. 

As Morsov took his place, Slit stepped ahead of him, right behind Button. 

“Hey.” Morsov looked down at him, daring Slit to stand up to him. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Getting supper. What's it look like?” Slit replied insolently.

“That's my position. Mine.”

“Not anymore.”

“Get back in your place before I make you,” Morsov warned. Button smirked and caught Slit's eye briefly, giving him a wink.

“So make me, Buzzard bait.” Slit tossed off the insult easily, and the sudden rage that flared in Morsov's eyes rewarded his gambit; Slit already had the upper hand.

Incensed, Morsov swung the first blow, and just as Slit had anticipated, Morsov swung with his right, so Slit ducked down along Morsov's outstretched arm and came up close, inside Morsov's reach, hitting him square under the jaw so that Morsov's teeth clicked together.

Stumbling, Morsov fell back against Button who straightened him up, setting him back on his feet, but not before Slit landed a few more blows, meaning to knock Morsov down. He stuck close to Morsov, where he would be safe from Morsov's long swinging arms.

Morsov shouted at him, a string of incomprehensible gibberish that sounded as sharp as curses, all snappy consonants and growling vowels and he slammed his forehead down on Slit, meaning to knock him over, but Slit saw the motion and jerked back, catching the impact to the side of his jaw. Slit tasted blood, but it was merely a glancing blow.

Turning his balance and momentum to good use, Slit slammed a blow into Morsov's solar plexus with his elbow, and Morsov stumbled back, gasping for breath, though he managed to stay on his feet.

The line of War Boys broke apart, gathering around to watch. Coil shouted at him from over Furiosa's shoulder.

“Don't let me down Slit, I got a food bar riding on this fight!”

Laughter all around, and the War Boys shifted again, opening up to give them more space. Slit chanced a glance around as he waited for Morsov to recover; no real challenge if he kicked an already wounded man down. At the front of the line, he could see that the Ace and all the other Half-life Nobles were watching and commenting, though from here it was impossible to tell what they said. 

Slit briefly met the Ace's pale eyes, and it made him realize that if he wanted to accomplish anything, he was going to have to do something that would make the Ace always remember who was best among the cohort. So he had to win or suffer the indignity of being one up from Notch and one down from Nux for the rest of his time as a War Pup.

“Come on, Morsov.”

Morsov spat out a word that sounded like a curse, and it was tinged in blood.

“Come on. Aren't you hungry?” Slit smirked, and then Morsov came at him again.

Keeping his center of gravity low, so that the taller Morsov would have no chance, Slit dodged as Morsov charged him and immediately aimed a quick body blow as Morsov passed him, checking Morsov's hip with his shoulder, knocking him off balance. The older War Pup skidded down in a flail of limbs, overturned by his own momentum. 

Slit straightened up proudly. He had won with one decisive blow, one where he didn't even need to throw a punch.

Cheers rose up from the War Boys, and Slit took in the praise, basking in the glow of attention, in the searing spotlight of glory, honor, and victory

“V8! V8! V8!” The War Boys shouted, and Coil waved his won food bar in the air.

Slit caught a glimpse of Morsov out of the corner of his eye. The older boy was back on his feet, ready to fight again. Slit spun around quickly to defend himself, just in time to see Morsov's fist coming at his face, but the Ace stepped in, catching Morsov's wrist before he could land the punch.

“Fight's over, Morsov. You had your chance, fair and square. Now yield.” The Ace gave Morsov a shake, dragging him back, and Morsov snarled at Slit.

“Fool! You can't take my place!”

“Hey now.” The Ace glared down at Morsov, his grip like iron around the boy's wrist. “You were told to yield, and you're gonna yield. Slit's second now.”

Sullenly, Morsov relaxed his arm, unclenching his hands, and the Ace let him go, leaving the War Pups to rejoin the Half-life Nobles.

“Mediocre, Morsov,” Slit whispered to Morsov as he walked past the loser. To add insult to injury, Slit grabbed Nux from the crowd and set the boy firmly behind him in line, pushing Morsov back two positions, one ahead of Notch.

“Hey! You can't do that!”

“Wanna fight me for it?” Slit grinned, and the War Boys cheered around them, laughing at Morsov's misfortune.

 

Supper tasted of blood and salt. Slit could feel Morsov's venomous eyes on him for the duration of the meal, but Slit had won and everything was delicious to him, even Morsov's dirty looks. 

As soon as Button was promoted and gone, Slit thought as he ate, that would make him first among the War Pups, ahead of all his peers who had been War Pups longer than Slit had been. He'd use that to his advantage; the first received privileges from the Ace that the others didn't. 

After supper, Coil himself came by and gave Slit a portion of the food bar that Slit had won for him. He even took Slit around to meet some of the other Drivers and Lancers; they patted him on his back, clasped his shoulders, and asked him where he learned to fight. Slit merely shrugged and gave them some amusing answer he thought they would like; he had to keep something in reserve. After all, someday he might have to fight one of them.

A Half-life Noble came by; Imperator Acosta's crew lead, and he patted Slit's head as he strode past

Head held high, Slit comported himself haughtily in the ringing praise of War Boy society. He had made himself a prince among War Pups.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied attempted rape.

Tonight they were working through supper. As second War Pup, Nux volunteered to stay behind to finish when Slit and the other higher ranking members of the War Rig's crew took off to eat. The crew lead had already gave him a food bar in compensation for the missed meal, with another promised for later. 

The War Rig had to be fully cleaned, serviced, inspected, and ready in two days time for a twice-yearly run where trade goods would be picked up from Gastown and Bulletfarm to be run to Bartertown, all in one long journey. The War Rig would be hauling thousands of gallons of guzzoline, kerosene, and other petroleum-derived products, as well as untold numbers of bullet rounds for trade. Neither of the leaders of the other settlements could drum up a trade run with an escort as big as the Citadel's, and Immortan Joe charged prime rates for his trouble. Bulletfarm ran lean and couldn't spare the men; Gastown had some skilled War Boys who could do some incredible feats in battle, but they lacked the practical experience to make the long-haul runs.

Nux was under the backseat, looking for a lost nut. It had come loose off a bolt holding down one of the seats and had been knocking around somewhere inside the cab, annoying Imperator Acosta as he drove. Wherever it was hiding in the cab Nux wasn't sure; he was going hand by hand, searching every possible nook, every possible crack, feeling with his fingers, patting down every possible surface and looking below anything that could be moved. He had gone through about a third of the cab when he heard voices.

Odd; the other Drivers and Lancers had already gone. As far as Nux knew, it was only Furiosa and himself, and it was only a few minutes into supper. The Driver and Lancer crews that rode escort also worked alongside the Half-life Nobles as the War Rig's Revhead crew; it was their right and duty to serve.

The voices were low, hard to hear from the back of the cab. Nux crawled silently to the front of the cab; the driver-side door was open, just a crack, and he peeked out between the metal plating.

“You really thought you could get away from me.”

Nux couldn't see who it was yet or who was speaking, and didn't recognize the voice, but he could see Furiosa moving away, backing up, her hands held up in a placating gesture.

Her fingers were trembling.

“Just trying to work here,” Furiosa said calmly, stepping around the loose engine covers.

“Work? There's some better work I have in mind for you. Get back here. Don't try to run from me.” The voice was low, threatening.

“No need for trouble.” Her voice was cold and hard despite the civility of her words; there was an edge to them, an unpleasant note of warning that Nux had never heard before. Curious, Nux climbed up onto the back seat and peeked out of the open window from the deep shadow of the cab.

“Oh, no trouble at all. No trouble if you do as I say.” A hand darted out from a shadow and grabbed Furiosa by the wrist, dragging her out of Nux's line of sight.

“No!” Furiosa was silent after that, but he could hear her breaths coming harsh as she struggled.

Quickly, without a sound, Nux clambered out the window and onto the running board, ready to rush to her aid. But as they struggled silently, as she tried to twist out of the unseen War Boy's grip, the War Boy swung out to where Nux could see him. Nux saw the unwhitened skin and the bright sway of the long delicate chains of the Immortan's emblem against the War Boy's leg. It was an Imperator. 

The Imperator moved forward, spinning Furiosa around to slam her against a tall stack of tires, and now Nux could see that it was not just an Imperator, it was the Prime Imperator.

Heart pounding, Nux slipped into the shadow of the perch behind the cab, flattening himself against the War Rig. He didn't know what to do; whatever this was, it was not good. He couldn't think of anything that he knew Furiosa to have done to have deserved this, and besides, it didn't look like punishment. He had seen punishment before; this was something utterly different.

He remembered back to when Furiosa was a War Pup; the Prime Imperator had come once at supper and exchanged some angry words with the Ace. So that hadn't been about the Ace, Nux thought. It was about Furiosa, and whatever the Prime Imperator wanted from her, it was bad enough for the Ace to have involved himself.

Quickly, Nux looked around, trying to think of what he could do. He fumbled in his pockets, and the first thing that came to hand was his hex key. Gripping it tightly, he swung out around the War Rig; he didn't have to actually hit anyone; if he hurled it near them, the sound of it hitting the wall should distract them long enough for Furiosa to get away. At least, that was what he was hoping for.

But before he could throw the hex key, a loud voice called out, echoing through the War Rig's shop, and it startled Nux into dropping his hex key. It fell with a tiny clink into the shadow of the War Rig's great tires. He darted back into his hiding spot.

“Oi, Furiosa! You done rebuilding that alternator yet?” Brash and bold, Coil walked in as if nothing was awry, walked straight up to Furiosa, and slung his arm companionably around her shoulder, as if he did not notice that the Prime was nearly on top of her.

Confused, the Prime Imperator backed up, nearly stumbling over his feet as he did so.

“N-not quite.” Furiosa slid her trembling arm around Coil's back, in a parody of easy camaraderie. “Probably have another hour or two? H-how was supper?”

“Boring without you. Mush had double seeds in it today. I think they're fattening us up for the run.”

“Don't interfere, War Boy,” the Prime snapped.

“Just checking on my Lancer's work, Prime.” Coil ducked his head politely. “We'll be on our way then-”

“I told you not to interfere. Leave.”

“Sorry Prime, right away; but first Furiosa, don't forget we're supposed to be inspecting the gas pods for the run,” Coil said coolly, as if nothing was wrong. “Oh, and the oil filters. Mustn't forget the oil filters. Double the trouble with two engines, eh Furiosa?”

“I ordered you to leave!” The Prime's voice was raised, and other members of the War Rig's escort began trickling in, drawn by the commotion. The Ace showed up, followed by two other Half-life Nobles, one of them the crew lead.

“Problem, Prime?” The Ace made his way easily through the Drivers and Lancers who parted for him. He glanced at Furiosa, at where the white had been smudged on her arms, her wrists, and her neck. At the Prime's unpainted hands, palms white from where he had laid his hands on her, a splotch of white on his chest where he had pushed up against her shoulder. She was still breathing hard, shaking just a little bit.

“With you, Ace? Always.” The Prime Imperator snarled at the Ace, and there was a little gasp around the room, followed by mutters of disbelief.

“Maybe we should have it out, once and for all,” the Ace suggested. The Ace cracked his knuckles and Nux could see the Ace's scarred fists clench into a hard knot.

“Maybe.” The Prime spat, stepping forward.

At that moment, Imperator Acosta walked in, flanked by the remaining two Half-life Nobles. He looked around, at Furiosa and Coil, at the Prime Imperator, at the Ace, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

“I expect better of my crew,” Imperator Acosta's commanding voice was loud in the ensuing silence. “I expect that the majority of my crew should be at dinner, and then resting in preparation for the long run. I expect others of my crew to be at work readying the War Rig. Not squabbling amongst themselves.” 

The Ace stepped back politely into the fold of Drivers and Lancers, and he joined his fingers together in the V8 with a little nod.

The rest of the War Rig crew bowed their heads, making the V8. Many of them left, returning to supper, but a sizable portion stayed, returning to work. Chatting lightly about some business with the engines, Coil walked Furiosa away from the Imperators, to the other side of the War Rig.

The Ace strode over to the War Rig. Something caught his eye; he paused briefly and knelt, picking something up from behind one of the War Rig's wheels. As he stood up, the Ace looked right at Nux in his hiding place.

“Dropped something, Nux.” The Ace winked at Nux, and handed him the hex key. 

Nux pocketed it and before he could say his thanks, the Ace swung him up in his arms and spoke loudly, catching the attention of both Imperators, interrupting their conversation. Subtlety, the Ace turned his body fractionally so the men could clearly see that he was holding a War Pup.

“Well now, pup, any luck finding that missing nut? The one that's been rattlin around something fierce.”

“No Ace, not yet,” Nux replied, pitching his voice to carry. “Still looking.”

“Well, you're not going to find it out here. Get back in that cab and keep at it,” the Ace hoisted him up onto the running board and gave him a wink. 

Nux kept his face straight as he climbed into the cab from the window. He paused and saw the Prime Imperator leave, turning on his heel in disgust. Imperator Acosta waited until the Prime was gone, before nodding to the Ace in approval and leaving.

Crawling over to the other side of the cab, Nux peeked over the edge of the window frame.

“Are you all right?” Coil was sitting with Furiosa on a rolling mechanic's creeper, his hands folded in his lap. He was close to her but not close enough to touch her, and he was tall enough so that his knees jutted up comically from the short creeper.

“Yeah. Just...gotta touch up the white later,” Furiosa shrugged, but her shoulders were slumped in dejection.

“You're bruised.”

“It's not that bad.”

“I can see it through the white. It's bad.” Coil shook his head. “You should have told me. I would have stayed.”

“You couldn't have known. I didn't know. It's been so long; I didn't think he'd...” She took a deep, shuddering breath, and then looked at Coil, her brow furrowed with concern. “I thought I was safe.”

“You are. You will be, from now on.”

“How did you know to look for me?”

“Someone said something about seeing the Prime come around, looking in on the mess and then leaving.” Coil shrugged. “I had a bad feeling so I followed it. I told Tran I was going for you, and he must have told the Ace and ...” Coil gestured, and Nux saw that he was making an effort to not to touch her accidentally. “They must have all followed the Ace back to the shop.”

“Why would you think that the Prime had anything to do with...anything?”

Coil sighed. “Not a lot gets out of the Immortan's Tower, but we know he's got a stable full of breeders up there. Couple stables to be exact, all different ages. The War Pups see it sometimes when they're in and out, and they tell us. Sometimes if they're no good for breeding, they end up here. Like that Revhead, Koori. And Kiley the Lancer, the one who rides with Steer's crew, the one with five Lancers.”

“I thought...”

“That I didn't know?” Coil made a face, shaking his head. “Sure I know. Even though I don't want to. I remember your first day with us in the War Tower, Furiosa. Six, seven hundred days ago? I was in the shop next door when the Ace stopped training the boys all of a sudden after just a few minutes. We looked out to see what was wrong and saw him head off into the upper warren. He didn't show up to supper that day and some of the boys were taking bets that it was the Prime again, with a girl. After all, there was all that screaming...”

“I didn't...didn't know that you heard.” Furiosa looked mortified.

“Isn't the first time that the Prime has...” Coil made a distasteful face. “At least this time the Ace got you fast. Last couple pup trainers didn't care to stick their heads into the Prime's business, and it's pretty certain that's why Koori won't talk. She can, but she's not said a word to anyone in thousands of days.”

“Oh.”

“He's a nasty one, the Prime.” Coil put his hands on his knees. “At least he's usually too busy to bother us. No one much likes him, but what can you do? He's been with the Immortan since the beginning, at least that's what they say. We just keep our heads down and try to protect our own.”

“That includes me?”

“Of course.” Coil met her eyes. “You're the best Lancer a War Boy could have. You work hard, you train hard, you're responsible, you know the car inside and out...I'm lucky to have you, Furiosa, and I'm not giving you up without a fight.”

“But...”

He looked at her, very seriously. “Furiosa. No one cares who or what you were before; it's what you are now that counts. And you're a great Lancer; you deserve to be riding escort. None of us are gonna let you go under the wheels, even if it's the Prime driving.”

Furiosa pressed her hands to her face, biting back a sob. She leaned briefly against Coil and he leaned back, just a little, and the gesture made Nux smile to himself, that finally she had made friends with her Driver, had an ally and a best mate.

“Next time, don't work alone. I'll stay when I can, promise.” 

“Sure.” Sniffling, she got up. “I really have to finish that alternator before bedding down for the night.”

“Let's go touch up your white first. People are going to make dirty Lancer jokes at me, the way you're looking now.” Coil winked.

Furiosa laughed, just a little, blinking back tears. “All right.”

As they left, Nux absently ran his fingers over the inner frame of the cab, and as he did so, he felt something rattle under his fingertips. Curious, he ducked down to inspect the loose part.

It was the missing nut, fallen into a narrow space in the inner frame. Gratefully, he extracted it and climbed out of the cab to show the Ace, who would bolt it back in tightly where it belonged.

*****

They had cycled around through past the one hundred thirty-sixth and come around again. This time when they passed the ninety-third, there was no outburst from the Dag, no trouble, merely calm acceptance.

They had lived and died with the men of the Pequod once already. Living with them again hurt less the second time around and the pain would continue to ease as they revisited old wounds.

Since the day of the ninety-third, Capable had taken over the reading; she did not have the expressiveness of the Dag, but she read in a clear and precise manner, never hesitating on words even though some of them were complicated enough for them to pause and discuss the possible meanings. 

On their second run through the ninety-third, the thesis that Angharad had about the Dag continued to refine, to grow ever more clear. Her shoulder-length hair, her strange ways, the way that sometimes she would forget that they were speaking and walk away, following the trail of light as it made its way along the stone wall of their enclosure. The Dag was like Pip, a castaway, stranded with no hope of survival, no hope of human contact.

Ages ago, perhaps a year or more, the Dag had been set adrift, lost in lonesomeness and weary days, days that slogged with no end. Alone with no one at her side but the book and the changing light of the sun to know that she was still alive. Where the only respite, the only suggestion that another human being existed in this world was the tray shoved through the door twice daily with its fresh food and its glass of milk.

Whoever the Dag was, whoever was truly behind those pale eyes and pale hair and even paler skin, that person had been long lost in a wilderness of the mind that only such intense isolation could have created. It shuddered Angharad to the core, thinking that the Dag had been alone in this horrid place for so long by herself.

Angharad and Capable had decided to try to reach the Dag, as best they could.

She and Capable took turns keeping the Dag company at night; sometimes one or the other would sleep with her, if the Dag would allow it, which often she didn't. In the darkness of night, the Dag spoke to herself quietly, in jumbled whispers, calling on the great Somnambulists, her sleeping gods, giants that roamed the waste beyond human vision, whose footprints left invisible trails in the poisonous dust for man to follow. The Dag kept her head covered with a bit of fabric torn off the end of her shift, a sign of her continual piety, and sometimes Angharad would catch her counting the days on her fingers, lining up her knuckles to count the shape of the moon against the dots and dashes on her middle, fourth, and pinky finger. 

It took Angharad a long time to think of how to try to draw out the Dag. The real one, the one that she caught glimpses of sometimes, when the girl smiled at Capable's jokes, or made some wry comment about Herman Melville Moby Dick. Not the stranger that spoke through the book, as if a mad oracle from ancient days, swaying to the tuneless sound of an unheard song that cut through the darkness of a long-buried cave.

She wanted to find the Dag, to catch her up from the sea in which she had been cast adrift, to cast her nets into the icy waters and draw the Dag back to that verdant land where she could know peace among her new friends. But it was hard; Angharad had no idea where to start. She approached it as carefully as if she were planning their escape, to break into the Citadel that the Dag had casually wound about herself.

It was a difficult idea; she had thoughts as to what she could do, but she couldn't share them with Capable. For one it would be rude if the Dag knew they were discussing her, for another, she didn't think Capable would understand.

But then it came to her; if she wanted something of the Dag, she had to give of herself. Trade in kind; there was power to such agreements. The old stories said as much.

 

“I know we don't speak of it. But I think it's worth it to talk about what life was like before.”

“You mean Before?” Capable asked. “As in before the death of the world?” That was a favorite topic of discussion; they always had lots of things to talk about when they talked about Before.

“No. I mean...before here. Our lives before we came here.” 

Capable gave her a hard, flat look; this was something that even the two of them had never spoken of. It had been mutually agreed upon in silence, they had an understanding, and the look Capable gave her suggested that she felt that Angharad had utterly betrayed that unspoken agreement.

“Before I was a flower. O magnum mysterium.” The Dag sang under her breath, a tiny sweet melody, and Angharad felt a little stir of excitement in her heart; she knew that was truly, utterly the Dag. Whoever she had been before she became captive. Before she had suffered for untold days in silence.

“Capable, I know it's perhaps not something we should talk about. Maybe the memory is too sweet to ever share, too perfect to tarnish by speaking aloud, especially here in this tainted world where nothing can ever make us forget that that we are slaves. But we cannot forget who we are, that is, who we are deep inside of ourselves. Not who we have been made to become. By staying silent, I am afraid that we would forget ourselves and lose our way.”

“You can speak. I would rather not.” And here Capable turned her back on Angharad.

Angharad swallowed. “All right. I understand. Well. My father was a Librarian. My mother was a Historian. The Historians trace their descent along the matrilineal line. Father traced his Librarian roots to the great Downtown Public Library, and my Historian roots go back to the historian Annales Block. Look.” Angharad pulled the neck of her shift down, to show the first line she had worn on her skin, writ permanently in black over her heart, the first of many planned lines for her to wear that she feared would never come to fruition.

_What is the use of history?_

“I think the answer is so that we don't forget.” Angharad said. “So that we don't forget that we are humans and not beasts. So that we will try not to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

“Mistakes.” Capable still had her back turned. “Like this one.”

“No, this isn't a mistake. Trust me.” Angharad replied, and she guided the conversation to the abstract. “It's not that history repeats itself. That's a silly statement, as Mother used to say. It's that human nature is hard to overcome. Our own beastly selves, deep inside. Everything changes; the situation, the individuals, but human nature, that is much harder to change. And so we make the same mistakes.” She shifted a little, sitting up straight to catch their attention. “My mother called me Angharad Golden-Hand, like the story.”

“Story?” The Dag leaned closer, curious.

“My name comes from a story. It means 'beloved'. It is a story about a green valley, and the princes who worked the land, mining its depths for coal to burn, searching for a princess.”

“Was it a story from a book?”

“Once, a long time ago, I think. But it's been lost, like so many books have been lost. Burned up after the water wars by men so embittered they could no longer stand the thought of any form of beauty anymore. Many texts come down to us only in fragments because of those horrible days, during the fall and destruction of the world before.”

The Dag listened, entranced. “Do you have an example?”

Angharad searched her memory:

_By the rivers of Babylon we wept when we remembered Zion. They hanged us by our chains upon the willows in the mist. Our captors, our tormentors thus forced us for our songs. They drew their guns upon us, rejoicing: “Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”_

“I think I've heard something like that before,” Capable turned to meet Angharad's eyes, breathless with wonder. “Once upon a time...”

“In a land far away.” Angharad smiled at her, and took her hand, twining their fingers together. “What about you, Capable? Where did you come from?”

“My folks were Engineer folk, out in the west.” Capable said slowly, hesitantly. “We built roads and bridges, and maintained the ones left from Before. In hopes that someday the world could be traversed again from one end to another.”

“How about you, the Dag?”

“Botanists.” The Dag touched her tattoos, one finger after another, tracing each line. “I was raised by Botanists. Following the seasons, growing the plants, breeding them hardy, breeding them less thirsty. It's spring right now, you know. Planting time and grafting time. Would be a busy time of year back home.”

“Spring? I thought the seasons had gone with the death of the world, when all became winter and sickness was the only thing that rained from the skies.”

“We track 'em anyway, following the phases of the moon. The plants do better when you do that, even if there isn't much more to the seasons than sun or no sun, and wind or no wind.” The Dag shrugged. “Plants remember the seasons better than we do; it's encoded in their genetics.”

“The blueprints, inside us all?”

“The very same.”

“My first memory was my grandfather's library. He had books, so many books that they couldn't be read in one lifetime. He repaired the broken ones, and recopied the ones that were falling apart.”

“What does that mean, to recopy?”

“My aunts and uncles made paper, from old cloth and hemp fibers. And they'd cut them to size and we would write, with a very small neat hand, all the words again from the books that were too fragile to continue living. I copied a book too. Do you want to hear it? I have all the words.” Angharad tapped her head. “I copied the pictures too, though I don't know if there's enough dust here to draw by.”

“Yes, please.”

The Dag sprang forth from her seat on the other side of the room to come sit beside Angharad, taking her hand as well. The Dag's long fingers entwined with hers, and Angharad smiled. 

“Please, Angharad. Please tell.”

_Down in the valley there were three farms. The owners of these farms had done well. They were rich men. They were also nasty men..._

*****

“V8! V8! V8!”

Cheering, they watched the War Rig head off on the complex run, the triangle trade between Gastown, Bulletfarm, and Bartertown. It was almost like getting a holiday, with the Immortan giving his speech and the Wretched crowding and fighting over the Aqua-Cola, and the anticipation of a few days without Half-life Nobles and Drivers demanding to know the progress of work. For the War Pups, it meant a few days without having to answer to the Ace; the substitute trainer only did the basics, herding them to their jobs, making sure they ate, and guarding them at night. Otherwise, they were mostly free to do as they pleased.

Slit and Nux stood on the metal edge of the shops, overlooking the waste below. Crowds of people seethed beneath their feet, and for amusement, Slit broke off pieces of a food bar and threw it into the crowd to watch the Wretched fight for the scraps.

“You shouldn't do that.” Nux elbowed him. “You're gonna get in trouble.”

“The Ace isn't here.”

“Skew is.” And quickly, Nux slipped the remnants of the food bar out of Slit's hand and pocketed it as the substitute trainer came by.

“Back to work, pups.” Skew patted them on the head as he passed, and Slit gave Nux a grudgingly grateful look.

“How'd you know he was coming by?” Slit asked, as they headed the other direction.

“His left foot clinks when he walks because one of his boot soles is metal,” Nux whispered as they walked back to the shops together. “So you can hear him coming from a klick away.”

“Hmph. You make it obvious when you say it like that.” Slit was about to head into the shop they were assigned to while the Ace was gone, but then Nux stopped him, grabbing his arm.

“Hey, come on, let's go see something. Notch told me they brought in a new drive this morning, out of the waste.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. The morning patrol caught a Buzzard car. I've never seen one up close; let's go look!”

Interest piqued, Slit let Nux lead the way.

 

They went to the junker shop where Notch worked. The Revheads here built nothing; they merely took apart busted and trashed cars, sorting the good parts from the bad, rebuilding what they could and banging out whatever dents they could manage before the parts were moved into storage.

“Buzzard car.” Slit scoffed. “More like pieces of one.”

“It's the junker shop. What do you expect?” Nux peered around it, looking under the hood; the Revheads wouldn't be back for a little while longer. They were still cleaning up after the the departure of the War Rig. “Looks like they took the engine out already.”

“What'dya suppose killed it? Slit put his hand on one of the spikes, giving it a firm shake, testing its strength..

“Snapped an axle, and the bottom's all torn up.” Nux looked up from under the chassis and shook his head. “Either the car already had a flaw or the Lancer hit it at the wrong angle in the wrong place.”

“Can't they just repair it?”

“There's no repairing Buzzard cars. You just break them down and make them into something else, something better.” Nux said. “What are you doing?”

“I'm going up for a look.” Slit swung himself up onto the spikes with one easy motion. “Wanna see how good their welds are.”

“Careful.”

“I'm fine.” Slit made his way nimbly around the spikes, balancing briefly on a thick spike on top with his boots, and then he launched himself up off the car, landing with a showy flip. 

Nux's eyes were wide. “Where'd you learn that?”

“It's easy. Just balance and weight distribution, all that stuff the Ace yells about all the time that you don't listen to. This is easier than climbing the Thunderdome.”

“You really...?”

“Yeah. I used to climb the Thunderdome all the time.” Slit tested the spikes on the other side with his hands, giving one a sharp shake before pulling himself up one-handed, briefly suspending himself in midair before dropping back onto his feet lightly.

“What's it like?”

“Dusty and rusty. The whole thing's just scrap beaten and welded into a giant open frame, except where it's been worn smooth by people touching it. When there's a fight, you have to get there fast and try to get up top first, for the best view. Otherwise the men push you aside and you can't see anything at all.”

“How do you stay up there?”

“Gravity. Inertia. You get high enough up, you can just lie there, looking down.”

“How many fights did you see?”

“I dunno, I never counted.” Slit shrugged. 

“I wish I had something like that.” Nux kicked at a tire, shredded where the thunder stick had hit it. “Even Morsov has something chrome like that in his past. I've got nothing.”

“Yeah? What's Morsov done that's so chrome?”

“He walked from the Buzzard camp to the Citadel. He almost died. The Ace brought him up out of the Wretched.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah. I remember. I was there when it happened. They had just come back from a quick Gastown run. I remembered running a bottle of Aqua Cola over to the Ace.”

“Why'd they take him?”

“The Ace said it was because he spoke the Buzzard language and was almost dead from walking. That meant he had to walk a long way, day and night for almost three days, without stopping, evading the Buzzards and road warriors at the same time.”

“Shine.” Slit blinked, grudging impressed.

“Yeah, the Ace got into a real ugly argument with the War Pup trainer over Morsov. That trainer didn't want to risk taking on Morsov as a new War Pup. They shouted a lot and hit each other a bunch, but the Ace won and Morsov got to stay.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How long ago was that?”

“1,467 days ago.”

“That means you were what...like a thousand days old?”

“More than that. I don't know for sure exactly since no one counted for me before I could count. Probably 1,300 days or so? I'm not as little as I look.”

“How do you remember all that?” Slit stared at Nux in disbelief.

“I remember everything.” Nux looked up at Slit. “Doesn't everyone?”

“No. No one does. That's not normal.” Slit looked away, crossing his arms. “It's better not to remember sometimes. Most of the time.”

“I thought people just lied when they said they couldn't remember.” Nux looked at him curiously. “I remember everything.”

“That sounds miserable,” Slit said. “Maybe it's better you don't have anything so 'chrome' to remember other than the Citadel.”

“Why's that?”

“Because whatever you think you don't like about this place, everything else out there is is much worse.” Slit looked at the ugly jagged spikes of metal jutting from the armoured plating of the Buzzard car. “Trust me.”


	5. Chapter 5

To push back boredom, Angharad, Capable, and the Dag explored every single inch of the room. Nothing had been left unmeasured, undiscussed, undiscovered. They traced the cracks in the ceiling and peered into corners where spiders and insects dwelled, their breaths stirring the scuttling creatures into makeshift action. They peered around the ledge where the narrow privy hole was, where waste was piped away. They counted the chisel marks on the bases of their stone beds; they tried to guess the gauge and types of tools used to cut the room from solid sandstone, though here, Capable was really the only one who had any inkling of what was had been done.

No way of escape, but for the door that was almost never unlocked, and when it was, it was always heavily guarded. Even when the War Pups came to clean up, to sweep and to change out the blankets with fresh ones, to clean the privy and wash down the beds and floors, the door was heavily guarded by Imperators who blocked the entry with their broad shoulders.

But even without the hope of escape, the room was worth exploring. There were oddities; little messages carved lightly in the stone, in odd places where the changing light would not reveal the carvings to their captor's gaze. The three discussed the graffiti; perhaps it had been done with the edge of a metal spoon or some other similar implement. Names, date marks, little ticks to count the passage of time and days. There was no way of gauging how old the graffiti was, and many of them were in languages they could not read, languages written with jagged lines or curling marks and dots. Sometimes it was just as simple as words scrawled so atrociously that they were impossible to decipher. 

There were geometric figures as well, some that were purely shapes, fractal explosions of squares and triangles, of polyhedrons and polygons; one was a tiny carving of a flower, and here the Dag thought it was perhaps Gossypium or something like it. 

One carving that they ended up discussing in detail was a capital A, upside-down, carved lovingly under the lip of one of the beds, almost invisible; they had found it while lying down on the floor for a change of pace. The three had a good chat trying to decide why it was upside-down.

“Perhaps the carver couldn't read,” Angharad suggested. “I've heard that illiteracy is rather prevalent this region as opposed to the more civilized settlements far away.”

“Or maybe it was meant to be seen like this,” and the Dag hung off the bed, so that she was briefly upside-down herself, her hair hanging in a curtain about her face. “It looks right to me from here.”

“I think it's a builder's mark.” Capable said. “See how it was cut with a chisel, how the legs of the A are formed with symmetric precision? It must have been made by a man's hand, with iron.”

 

Angharad had enlisted the help of Capable; together they boosted the Dag up so she could look out the narrow barred windows. 

“We must be facing northeast. Down below is the kicking dust of vehicles; I think that it must be a battle, some kind of fight. There is a black car, and a silver car. But there are no explosions, no sharp report of gunfire. Unless of course, they're using crossbows? But wait, another car has joined in, an ochre-coated vehicle. What I thought was a rock, turned out to be as simple as a car parked off to the side. Now it's fighting for its life; the first two have stopped squabbling amongst themselves and have turned upon it.”

They helped each other up to watch in turn; just faintly they could make out the distant vehicles through plumes of obscuring dust, the glint of their windows and their metal bodies giving their positions away.

“The cars are stopping.” Capable said, relaying the message down. “Dust is settling. Judging from the way the moving light is reflecting off the car windows, I think the drivers must be exiting. Ah, there he is, all in white, him and his white-painted comrades. It must be the War Boys training,” she agreed with the Dag, and arms shaking, the two others let her down gently. “It has to be training; no one died.”

“Wonder what it's like out there,” the Dag reached her arms up toward the window, and her fingertips couldn't quite stretch up to touch the ledge, despite her height.

“Cold. Dry. Full of toxic dust.”

“Probably smelly too.” Angharad wrinkled her nose. “Stinky War Boys.”

“I don't know, they might not be too bad. Perhaps I'll train one to do my bidding,” the Dag joked. “Fight my wars for me.”

“You can't train them. They're probably all like Queequeg,” Capable said. “Wild. Noble, perhaps, but savages in their hearts.”

“A savage asking you to marry him?” The Dag teased, and the three laughed. “Offering you silver and embalmed heads?”

“Never!”

“I'd rather die than marry a War Boy,” Angharad made a face.

*****

Nux was early to the meeting but much too early; he had miscalculated. Even Corpus hadn't been moved here yet. And today they were rebuilding the Big Foot's automatic transmission, and he was missing it entirely. 

Nux sighed, hoping Morsov and Slit would watch closely and remember enough to retell it to him as closely as possible; he really had wanted to be there. But he knew that they could never remember all the details, not even Slit, and could only give him a rough sketch; he'd have to wait until the next rebuild.

Disappointed, he scowled; there was no avoiding the meeting. It had been a long time since Button was promoted and soon it would be Morsov's turn; that meant eventually it would be just him, stuck placating the Immortan's eldest. 

He thought about pacing the room, but that was foolish; best not to draw any attention. Nux slipped into the the deep shadow of a doorway alcove and sat down. With a sigh, he settled himself more comfortably and closed his eyes, meaning to rest a little until he heard heavy footsteps enter the room.

But then he heard voices.

 

“Perhaps my favorite memories are those set in the fragrant bookdust of my grandfather's library. I had most of my education there. From even my earliest memories, I recalled sitting at my mother's knee, learning the history. The second Hundred Year's war, the Oil Wars, the Water Wars, and the Word Wars, where so many books were destroyed and became heretical; so much so that any banned text was immediately consigned to the fires. All the books that gave people solace and faith, burned alive by those who had long lost their belief in any goodness in humankind or the world itself. The war that turned so many stories and texts into oral tradition, where the words are only remembered here, and not from reading. I truly wish we had some of those surviving books; perhaps they're out there somewhere, buried deep in the waste in a forgotten place, waiting for us to rescue them.”

“Mine was the flowers. When we planted the new crop varieties to see if they took. Waiting every day until they sprouted up strong and vigorous, their green fighting the soil and the soil fighting back. But if they were good and virtuous, they'd win, and then it would be war with each other. Did you know that that's what plants do? They fight, fierce and furious, deep down, a silent war between each and every stem and leaf and its neighbor, for water and minerals and the searing light of the sun. It's strange how in the end, it looks to our own eyes as inarticulate beauty, because we only see the flowers and the green and not the deathly struggle.”

“It's hard deciding what I liked the best. Perhaps it's when we're on the road, when it's laid out smooth and the grade is fine and perfect, and you know that someday, it will be our manifest destiny to connect them all, to spread out over the world. And then the distances between each settlement, each human being, will be just at little less, everyone a little closer, and maybe we won't be so frightened and lonely anymore.”

 

Nux pressed himself against the heavy metal door to hear more clearly, but as he moved, his boot scraped the door accidentally, and the words immediately gave way to silence, the sweet-spoken voices disappearing as if they never existed. Suddenly he heard nothing, but he pressed his ear harder, hoping to hear even a whisper. Breaths perhaps, even a sigh, a sign that someone else was there on the other side.

“Hello?” He whispered to the metal, afraid to be heard himself. “Is somebody there? I'm Nux. A War Pup. Hello?”

He waited it out patient, but no one ever replied.

 

Nux sat cold and alone in the dark alcove, hidden in deep shadow, waiting for Corpus Colossus.

*****

Coil found her working on a distributor, the scarred War Pup Slit helping her keep track of each piece and part, sorting them in order and tracking every bolt and screw.

He sat down on the bench beside them and waited for Furiosa to finish, watching without a word.

Soon, she handed the reassembled distributor to the War Pup and gave him some directions on where to take it and who to give it to. Once the boy was gone, she looked to Coil.

“Something's wrong, isn't it?”

“Can we talk?” Coil's blue eyes were filled with concern.

“Sure.” She gave him a questioning look but he shook his head and took her aside, out of the shops. They took a meandering walk through the warren, trying to find a quiet place where they wouldn't be overheard, and eventually, they ducked into the War Pup's nest.

Strewn blankets and scatters of sand, so unlike the War Boy's nests that had no such need for blankets; those were for pups and the poorly. A healthy War Boy, it was thought, needed no such luxuries but a warm bed of sand and perhaps his best mate by his side on the very coldest of nights..

“What's wrong, Coil?” 

“Listen; I just heard it down the line from the Secundus Imperator. We're riding daily patrol.”

Furiosa frowned. “Punishment. From the Prime Imperator.” The War Rig escort never did anything as mediocre as riding the daily patrol; they were part of an elite crew reserved for the runs, not inexperienced and unpaired Drivers and Lancers who honed their skills running down the occasional road warrior and skirmishing with the Buzzards at territorial boundaries. They would be riding minimal, without as many weapons, and in heavy cars that were only a small step up from the practice junkers, unlike their swift pursuit car that was designed light but was heavily armed for battle.

“Right. That's not really the problem though; there's nothing we can't do together as a crew. The real problem is that he's making the Ace do it too.”

Furiosa flinched and Coil knew his instincts were right, that was better for her to hear it from him; he hadn't wanted her to find out from gossip around the warren or the shops. 

“He'll be riding.” Coil scowled, and then he kicked at a loose blanket that had somehow found its way to the middle of the room. “Not even driving.”

“That's ridiculous. Ace will get killed.” Furiosa's breath caught. “Ace is too slow and heavy to work Lancer on a normal car. That kind of Lancer work is for a younger, lighter War Boy. He's a Half-life Noble; what are they thinking?”

“Acosta is furious, but he's done the best he can for us. It's only a week. It could have been worse.”

“Worse?”

“I heard the Prime wanted the three of us shredded.”

Furiosa couldn't help but laugh, bitter and humorless. “No one gets shredded on account of a petty insult. The Prime is overstepping. He's going to get himself in trouble at this rate.”

“The daily patrol's just to keep him satisfied that we're keeping our heads down. We think he's been banned from the War Tower. The Secundus came down to relay the order to Acosta, and you know the Prime would have done it himself to us directly, just to see the looks on our faces. I think the Prime tried to take it up with the Immortan Joe.”

Swiftly, she changed the subject. “The Prime hates Ace; he wants Ace dead.”

“Seems to me that their fight goes back a long ways,” Coil said. “But the Immortan's not having any of it, so this is about as much harm as the Prime can do.”

“Can we take Ace on board? He could ride the Lancer's basket, and I'll take the perch.”

“No, he's already been assigned a ride.” Coil shook his head. “Riding Moto-Lancer.”

“The Prime really wants him dead, doesn't he?”

“Acosta's got an idea; once we ride out, first stop we take for refueling, we'll swap him onto the support truck. And do it again on the way back; that way he looks like he's been riding Moto-Lancer all day. There isn't a War Boy alive who'd rat out the Ace, not if they know what's good for them.”

“Clever. We can always count on Acosta to think of something.”

“Of course this doesn't excuse us from the Bartertown run next week.”

“The Prime is a fool. Does he want to sabotage the run too?”

“I think we can manage. Tran and Dart offered to cover our maintenance duty on the War Rig, and if we have to, we can take turns at the wheel to Bartertown.”

“Are you really offering to let me drive, Driver?”

“If that means I can take tiny Lancer naps up top, I'll hand you the wheel myself.”

“Just don't do it while the car's chasing Buzzards and Bandits, Driver.” They smiled at each other, just a little.

“We begin the daily patrol tomorrow morning, early. I'm going to get a start on those Revheads of ours; they're not working enough to justify their mush. You should have have had them service the distributor.”

“I like working with my hands. There's something satisfying about getting all the pieces to line up right.”

“Well, make them do it next time; that's what they're there for, putting our car together and keeping it running.”

“Sure, Coil. You're the boss.”

“Furiosa.” He caught her eye. “That's not how I meant it. Even if I'm the head of the crew, I want you putting your time to good use, not doing the work that our Revheads should be doing. We're in this together; I want you making decisions too about how to set up our car.” Coil offered her his hand. “You're my Lancer, my crewmate, and if life and the Fury Road treats us fair, we'll always be partners.”

Furiosa met his eyes, and nodded; she clasped his hand, letting him embrace her briefly. Every time it was getting a little easier, a little less tense, and if there was anything she knew, it was that she could trust him, if only with her life and nothing else. Unlike some of the other stories she had heard of Drivers and Lancers and the relationships between them, Coil was content with keeping his distance, even turning his back to her on those nights before the runs when by custom and duty they slept side by side. Many other Drivers and Lancers she knew had very different arrangements; she was grateful for what she had with Coil, who only wanted the best out of his crew and no more than that.

“I have some ideas on how to set up the drive tomorrow.” Coil let her go with a fond pat to her shoulder. “Make sure you get plenty of rest.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for sexual harassment, implied rape, and cannibalism.

In the cold gray morning, shivering under fresh coats of the white, they went to the wheel shrine together as Coil had insisted. 

He paused for a moment, silent, before the darkened shrine; it was too early for icy sunlight to filter down through the airshafts, but distant torches gave enough light to go by.

“By his deeds,” Coil muttered, and he took his wheel, the one they had designed together when they were first paired up as a crew, a symbol of their partnership.

“Ready.” Furiosa said.

“Are you sure?” Coil flashed her a smile as he handed her the wheel. “Because I know a new Driver when I see one.”

“Coil. You're not serious, are you?”

“Serious as death and decay,” Coil replied, speaking in a low voice. “I've been thinking about it,” he said softly as they walked out through the infirmary, and she glanced at the sick War Boys huddled cold beneath their blankets, the bloodbags asleep in their cages. “It seems to me that it's below my dignity to be driving patrol. That's really for newly promoted Drivers and Lancers without a permanent ride.”

“So you want me to drive.”

“I want you to learn. We might as well get some good out of a bad situation. After all, when an engine breaks, if won't ever turn over again, that doesn't mean its life is over. Out in Gastown, they'll use it as the base block of a polecat's perch.”

“Huh.” The wheel was heavier in her hand than she remembered, and holding it in her two hands, she studied it, the leather-bound grip, the grinning skull, its golden tooth still embedded in the bone.

“To that end, I'm trying a new setup where I've re-purposed my Lancer. Furiosa, you're Driver this week. Sadly we won't have a Revhead crew to adjust the drive the way you like it, but I'm sure you can make do. After all, you know all the basics of throttle-brake-clutch and you've seen what I do on the road. You'll do fine.”

“I hope so.”

“Don't let me down, Driver. And...don't listen to what anyone else has to say about it; this is my decision and I'm taking any shots that come along.” Coil smiled at her nervously and braced himself for the lifts.

 

“Oi! Coil! You get tired of bein on the bottom? Your turn to climb up top?” A wag laughed, and set the rest of the daily patrol off as they waited to be let down on the lifts.

“Nah, bet it's cuz he wants a turn at jabbing the thunder stick, if you know what I mean.” Another War Boy sniggered.

“Ignore them,” Coil muttered, and he clapped his free arm around Furiosa's shoulder, speaking loudly, with cheerful confidence. “Boys, meet this week's newest Driver and Lancer team, Furiosa and Coil. If we're gonna ride the Fury Road historic, we might as well do it in style.”

Furiosa's mouth was fixed in a frozen smirk, something that resembled humor but did not make it to her eyes. Pulling away, she leaned against the car she'd be driving today, seemingly more interested in the chips of cracked yellow paint that clung to the frame than the War Boys around them.

“You gonna come in through the top door, Coil? Ride 'er all the way to Valhalla?”

Coil's eyes narrowed in irritation, but he forced a smile. 

“Doesn't matter how we ride, as long as we're riding together. And sure, why not all the way to Valhalla? After all Booster, you couldn't even take your ride all the way to Gastown, much less Bartertown. You don't got the horsepower.”

“Oh, he lanced you good, Booster! Right behind the axle!”

War Boys broke out in riotous laughter. 

“What about your new Driver?”

“What about Furiosa?” Coil took it in stride, cool and insolent.

“How much horsepower does he got under his hood, Coil?”

“More 'n Coil's got, obviously!”

The commanding clomp of the Ace's impending footsteps hushed the joking and laughter altogether; there was a certain professionalism that had to be shown around the Half-life Nobles. The daily patrol boys gave each other little looks of both excitement and resentment; it cut into their fun when they had to be so serious; after all, any time out on the Fury Road was dangerous, and if they were going to die, they were going to do it on their terms. But it was also a chance to shine; if somehow they could show they were chrome, perhaps the Ace would notice and push forward their promotions so they could be driving escort instead of toiling on the daily patrol.

“All right.” It was still early and the sun hadn't crested the horizon yet; the Ace still had his goggles off. He looked around at the War Boys of the daily patrol, his gray eyes stern. “You, you. Next down on the lift. And Booster, cinch that belt of yours; even if you're not a Lancer anymore carelessness like that is gonna get you snagged up on something and go out un-Witnessed.”

“Yes, Ace.”

“Right away.” 

War Boys scrambled to get their act together; it would be a bad day to be seen as mediocre in front of such a high-ranking War Boy.

The Ace strode over to Furiosa and Coil; he saw the wheel in her hand, and the handful of explosive lances slung casually over Coil's shoulder.

“Didn't expect to see this. Well, seems reasonable. You listen to your Lancer, Furiosa; he'll give you some good advice.” The Ace gave her a wink, and some of the tension melted off. Furiosa found herself relaxing, easing her grip on the wheel.

“Thank you, Ace.”

“Knew you'd make a good team. You make some good choices, Coil.”

“Thanks, Ace.” Coil managed a weak smile. 

“Be...be careful, Ace.” Furiosa's fingers moved, her grip shifted anxiously on the wheel. She wanted to reach out to him, to tell him not to die, but this was something that couldn't be said; riding off to battle was not a time for tears or grief but joy, at the prospect of living a hairsbreadth away from glorious death.

The Ace leaned forward, speaking low so only she could hear. 

“Ain't no one's gonna Witness me today. Not today, not this week. Not anytime soon.” 

He headed off to inspect the support truck.

 

Nine long, dull days went by driving patrol and Imperator Acosta's ruse looked to be working; no one in the Citadel had caught on that the Ace riding the support truck most of the day. It was eerily quiet, easy runs where they hadn't come across a Buzzard or even a lone road warrior. 

They had fallen into the rhythm of the daily patrol; early rising, late returns, quick meals of dried food bars on the road while refueling. When they could, when they felt safe and were on a big patch of flat, the patrol ran their cars against each other in mock battle, getting in the extra training that young, inexperienced, and unpaired crews might not otherwise get. Furiosa found it exhilarating; at first she needed Coil's eyes on constantly to track the other car, shouting directions down to her through the open top door, but eventually she could dance the counterpoint of battle, twirling her car to the tune of the whirring V4 and V6s, stopping and reversing, sliding through thin scatters of sand, changing directions and making the car follow her intentions, as if they were one and the same.

Furiosa's blood was high; over the course of the week she had battled each and every driver that rode patrol, generally equaling them in ability if not besting them outright. Today, her last day driving, she had outdriven Booster, generally considered the best of the patrol group, outflanked him in such a way that if they had been practicing under Imperator Acosta's watchful eye, the back wheel would have been splotched white and they would have ended the battle right there. She was now understanding why Lancers often joked about their Drivers getting shot out; there was a power to mastering the vehicle, a power she felt would be hard to give up once the week was done. Feeling for Coil, she began to understand what he had given up for her, if only briefly, and not just in terms of his pride and reputation.

In some ways, she didn't want this week to end.

 

It was on the tail end of one of these mock battles that the Bandits arrived, when they had just finished refueling and swapped the Ace back onto a motorcycle in preparation for the return to the Citadel. 

“Bandits left! Eyes on!” Someone shouted, and quickly, they gathered into formation, racing to get up to speed as a sizable group of Bandit motorcyclists roared out of the waste, half a dozen, barely outnumbering them.

Seven seconds. From this slow grind, it would take seven seconds to get up to minimum fighting pace, and three more to get to optimum speed. The patrol cars ran in tandem, heading away from the Bandits to gain the seconds they needed to get moving at speed, to gear up for battle.

Suddenly another, smaller group of Bandits cut in front of them, four cars climbing uphill directly toward them from a low, protected gully. 

It was an ambush and they were outnumbered two to one.

Three seconds.

Furiosa's hand hovered over the gearstick, ready to move it into higher gear.

“Thunder up!” The order came from the support truck for weapons to be at the ready, and she could hear Coil shifting above her, readying his thunder stick. Quickly, she glanced at her handgun, sheathed at her hip; Coil's sidearm actually, but by custom only the Driver was armed. The Lancer had to make do with thunder sticks and whatever he might have on hand. 

The two Moto-Lancers roared past; they were by far the lightest and the fastest. Furiosa watched the Ace take out a Bandit car with a sharp jab of a thunder stick through the open window of the back cockpit; the Bandit lost control in the ensuing explosion and spun out, taking out one of its comrades with it.

Finally, fourth gear. Furiosa shifted and fanged it, feeling the car open up underneath her, willing the car faster. She tried to cut between the motorcycles and the body of the Bandits, to provide the Moto-Lancers some cover. Beside her, Booster's orange heap came snarling up on her left and one of the two Lancers aboard took out the first of the Bandit motorcyclists that had caught up by swinging the metal pole of the lance into the Bandit's face.

That still left more Bandits than themselves, and Furiosa gripped the wheel hard, holding the car steady as a Bandit truck flanked her and made contact. The impact was jarring; the wheel nearly tore itself from her grip. Quickly she glanced back, but Coil was fine, hanging onto the wrapped grips of the lancer's basket with one hand while spiking the truck with his other.

Flames roared high; Coil had punctured the Bandit truck's fuel supply, and he ducked as flaming debris shot out around them, pinging shrapnel off the side of the car, and the air filled with the heavy reek of burning guzzoline.

Furiosa turned her attention back to the Ace; his Driver was making another attempt at flanking the last of the cars, but then the Driver made a crucial mistake; he misread the Bandit's cues and got half a second ahead, swinging past the Bandit's open cockpit.

It felt as if it happened very slowly. The silver flash of the sidearm from the Bandit's outstretched hand, the puff of smoke, and suddenly it was as though everything had returned to normal speed; the Driver was down, shot through the head, and with him the Ace who went down in a dusty tumble.

“No!” Furiosa swerved, jerking the car away to avoid hitting the Ace as he tumbled past with the downed motorcycle. A pair of Bandit motorcycles were headed for the fallen bike, meaning to capture it, and the last car was beginning a swinging curve to come back around and go in for the kill. Furiosa glanced at her dash gauges and made a quick calculation; she was up to optimum speed and could pull it off; it should work.

She shot a quick look back at Coil; he was holding on tight, and so she turned the wheel sharply and pulled the handbrake, sending the car into a controlled spin. Furiosa felt the tires lock and slide under her as she carved a path through a pair of Bandit motorcycles that seemed intent on running down the Ace. With the last snap of her car's momentum before she straightened out, she hit the Bandit car that had taken down the Ace and his Driver, clipping its rear end and knocking it off its feet, sending it skidding onto its side.

Breath hard and heart pounding, she reoriented herself and circled back to the Ace. The last handful of motorcycles were zipping away in defeat, Bandits shouting at each other to run, but the support truck's driver took out a straggler with his rifle. The sharp report echoed through the waste like thunder and the bike went skidding down as the driver slumped off.

They were first to the Ace's side; Coil dragged him up onto the Lancer's basket, and Furiosa glanced back; was the Ace still breathing? It was hard to tell.

“Support!” Coil shouted, and Furiosa focused herself, picking her way quickly through the mess and ruin of the battlefield to the support truck, driven by the highest ranking War Boy in the patrol.

“Run back to the Citadel, fast as you can!” The support truck's Driver yelled to Furiosa through the open window, pulling his truck to a halt. He got out and hauled himself up onto the roof of the cab with his long rifle, reloading as he went, the spent shell dropping at his feet where he kicked it away impatiently. “Have 'em send the hauler; we're gonna keep watch over the loot.” Booster and the others were already stopped, going around to the fallen Bandits, dispatching the trashed ones with quick shots to the head, and capturing any that survived in one piece.

“Right.” Furiosa idled the engine, setting the brake. She got out and helped Coil move the Ace into the passenger seat, as carefully as they could. The Ace was still knocked out cold. Limp and unconscious, he was unimaginably heavy, a heavier burden than she could possibly bear alone.

His face was badly bruised and swollen, but nothing seemed obviously broken and he wasn't bleeding, which seemed like good sign. Carefully she pulled down his goggles, but his eyes were closed.

“Coil?”

“Let's go. You drive.” Coil went back to the lancer's basket. 

Once Furiosa was settled in the driver's seat, he pounded the top twice to let her know he was ready and secured. Furiosa hit the throttle, swinging the car around the battlefield in a smooth curve and pointed toward the Citadel.

After she got up to fourth gear, she let go of the gearstick and took the Ace's broad, calloused hand in hers. His limp hand felt cold, dusty, and she twined her shaking fingers with his.

The Ace stirred briefly, and made a sound that was something like a sigh.

She squeezed his hand tight, holding on.

*****

When they heard the heavy sound of footsteps draw near and the sharp click of the lock turning in the door, Angharad, Capable, and the Dag quickly quieted and sat down meekly on their beds.

Capable shot Angharad a querying look, and Angharad shook her head; she really had no idea why they were coming; they couldn't possibly be bringing food again, and it was not even time to bring in water for washing; that had already happened the day before and would not come around again for another few days.

The same two Imperators as usual; they opened the door and gestured.

“Come now, up with you. All of you.” The bearded one pointed at them, one after another.

Angharad slipped her hand into Capable and the Dag's, one after another. Linking their fingers together tight, she stood, drawing them with her.

The Dag's eyes betrayed curiosity, but Capable's expression was hard and fixed.

“Come on, hurry it up. Immortan's not going to wait all day.” The other Imperator coaxed, gesturing. He looked back behind him, as if nervous; something or someone that put him in fear, Angharad thought. Probably his master, the master and owner of them all.

Proudly, head held high as if nothing could touch her, Angharad strode forward, taking her time, stepping out of her cell for the first time, her bare feet cold on the stone.

Angharad's hands tightened on Capable and the Dag's hands with a white-knuckled grip.

 

It was midday, a few hours after the first meal of the day, and a massive table was laid out in the central chamber of the Immortan's Tower where the great balcony looked out across to the War Tower and the Third Tower, the Immortan Joe's fiefdoms and sinecures. Upon the table was a feast spread out in heaping mounds of plenty, but there were only three men at the table.

“Ah, here they are, my little treasures.”

The bearded Imperator returned the key to Immortan Joe, who pocketed it, zipping the pocket close. Both Imperators were dismissed, but in practice that only meant that they stood guard over the doorways, their blackened gazes watchful.

Angharad noted the placement of the key, and knew for a fact that there was no way to retrieve it, and no way to escape, not across the bridges with their armed guards and then two other towers full of War Boys, unless it was the permanent kind of escape, hundreds of feet down.

She turned her attention back to the men, scrutinizing them as they scrutinized her. One, grossly fat, was piling his plate with something her vocabulary identified as cutlets of meat. The other, lean and hollow, sipped from a tall glass of water, eschewing the meat for plainer vegetarian fare, plain soy beans, plain greens, nothing mixed together, not one dish touching the other, and she guessed that nothing was cooked with more than salt, if that.

“What do you think, Danny?” Immortan Joe gestured to the girls. He was somewhere in between; not quite fat but not lean either, plate piled with both cutlets and vegetables, spooned haphazardly onto his plate in uncaring heaps.

“Bah, they're too young, not even ripe. That one's nothing but bones and skin, too thin-shanked for my taste. I thought you were going to show us something more appealing,” the lean one said, crossing his arms. “You said you had pretty girls; these are barely children.”

“They look succulent enough to me. Come 'n give your uncle Billy a kiss, sweetums.” The heavy man made a face, pursing his grease-slicked lips, and Angharad stared past him as if uncomprehending, as if she could not understand his words, an alien language spoken at her from across an insurmountable barrier of distance.

“Looking doesn't mean touching,” Immortan Joe said calmly, pointing to the girls to keep their distance.

“I don't understand you at all, Joe. More mouths to feed than it's worth,” Danny chewed his food slowly, spare mouthfuls as he stared at the girls.

“Danny's right. By my count, it will take nearly two thousand days for these girls to be old enough to bear, maybe three and a half thousand before they're at the peak of ripeness. That's a lot of days of the best food and mother's milk, times three,” the man identified as Billy said, around a mouthful of rare and bloody meat.

Immortan Joe laughed, a hearty sound. “I can afford it. You can't be impatient with breeders. The finest breeders, you have to tend to lovingly, with care. After all, you don't plant fruit trees thinking to get the fruit right away. You must water it, feed it, prune it carefully for many seasons before it's ready to yield firm, sweet fruit. My method is better than procuring adult women; they're easier to train this way, fight a lot less when time comes, and are generally more agreeable. Feeding them now is like tending the fruit trees; I'll get better, healthier sons in due time, a perfect heir to take over when I'm dead and gone. Of course, that won't be for a long time.” Immortan Joe chuckled.

“Don't know how you can be patient, Joe.” Billy licked his chops, and licked his greasy fingers one after another. 

“I have plenty of healthy breeders right now on my plate. This is the next crop, in due time, when I tire of the lovelies I have now. It's really a shame,” Immortan Joe explained. “There are only a few thousand ideal days for breeders, any breeders, really, in terms of beauty and attractiveness. One or two too many babies, and their looks go off and I have to replace them. After that, it's just milk and the occasional baby one of my boys plants.” The Immortan pointed to the Imperators at the doors. 

“What do you do when they stop bearing fruit?” 

“It's always a shame if the tree turns out fruitless,” Immortan Joe chuckled. “No flowers, no fruit...about as useful as a War Boy in terms of making babies.”

The men had themselves a good laugh.

“Speaking of War Boys, how many are you feeding now, Joe?” Billy asked.

“I don't keep count; their numbers vary every now and then,” Joe gestured magnanimously. “Besides, who has time to count them all? There's always more if I need them; my Imperator Acosta is working out details with a wholesaler in Bartertown; I might be able to pick up pups by the half-dozen in a few thousand days, once the new farm terraces start producing. And then there's the new filters installed for the Aqua-Cola bottling; I'm going to market a luxury product soon. I heard the owner of Bartertown is very interested and is willing to trade premium by the liter. By the time this crop is ripe,” Immortan Joe gestured to the girls, “the Citadel will be bustling with new pups and work. Then in six thousand days' time, I can lead the War Party to Bartertown and we'll see a new extension to the Citadel.”

“Dreaming big, aren't you, Joe? Well, I got exactly thirty War Boys at the farm, and that's how I like it. Two Imperators and twenty-eight others that see to the forges, the bulletworks, and the gun manufactory. Got a new design for flares that we're gonna be making soon; one of the boys comes up with some good ideas.”

“Fifty-two War Boys,” Billy gestured with a gnawed bone, “Mostly thanks to your generosity, Joe. Oh, and four breeders. They keep me happy and fed,” Billy winked.

Capable met Angharad's eyes, startled; Angharad tilted her head in the tiniest of nods.

_Human meat_ , the Dag mouthed silently from beneath her veil of white-blonde hair.

“That's bad business,” Danny shook his head. “You're gonna end up getting sick that way, gettin the lumps. Don't think that just because they're little and tender, they're healthier for you.”

“We're all half-lives, aren't we?” Billy shrugged. “Why not enjoy ourselves while we can?”

“Not me,” Danny chewed his greens. “I stay away from all that truck and mess; good produce is all I need to live. You can't get a taste for meat in this world; it'll consume you from the inside, just as much as you consume it.”

“Ha, we'll see,” Billy went back to his meat, and Angharad stifled a shudder.

“I don't want to hear this talk anymore. Music!” Immortan Joe roared, and something in a dark corner shifted; a young man all in red, who had been sitting so still, so quietly that Angharad had not noticed him until now. His head was bowed low, shaved smooth and whitened like the War Boys, but he wore clothes, real clothes, and not a tool belt in sight, a sign of special status.

Long, pale, unwhitened fingers that showed the pink hue of his humanity ran lovingly over the smooth wooden neck of a guitar, and when the fingertips of his right hand moved lightly, almost delicately over the strings, the chord that sounded was so beautiful that it sent an shiver of pleasure up Angharad's spine and made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

The young man glanced up briefly, as if to get a feel for his audience, or perhaps to hear his instrument better as he strummed with practiced ease, building a foundation for the light and airy tune that sang sweetly over the rhythmic chords.

Angharad choked down her fear, her revulsion, forcing herself not to flinch.

He had no eyes.

 

The three stood and watched for many hours as the grim feast continued, as the music played on heedlessly to the point where it was ignored as background noise. As the three became something like a lovely painting or sculpture, a trio of nymphs to be gazed upon until their beauty was no more than banal, background scenery for a more important play, this time a dialogue on the exacting business of the Citadel and its brother settlements. Finally, late in the afternoon and belching with satisfaction, the men packed up to go. That was their cue; the Imperators came for the three of them again, and escorted them back to their cell.

Angharad had never been so pleased, so happy to return to the safety of that small, stone-confined room.

*****

Nux heard the commotion of the hauler's engine coming to life with a deep bass growl and the Revheads shouting, getting it lined up onto the lift; the patrol must have caught and killed a pile of Bandits. Quickly, he set down the screws he was counting and ran out of the empty shop, catching up with Slit who had just passed the open door.

“Slit? What's going on?”

Slit grabbed Nux, pulling him close, holding his hand tight. He stared down, meeting Nux's eyes with a fierce, hard gaze. “Promise me you won't cry.”

“I won't cry.” Nux looked up at Slit curiously. “Why would I cry?”

“The Ace went down chasing Bandits. They just brought him back; he's alive, but he's been hurt.”

Nux stared at Slit as if the words made no sense to him. Once the words sank in, his bright eyes filled with tears.

“Nux...!” Slit growled, frustrated, and he dragged Nux back into the empty shop. “I said no crying.” Quickly he whipped out his shop cloth and dabbed at Nux's face, so that the tears wouldn't cut through the white. The black smeared around Nux's eyes, but Slit felt that he could minimize the mess if he kept it up, soaking up individual tears delicately with the edge of the cloth.

“What are we going to do?”

“There's nothing we can do. He's with the Organic Mechanic now, getting inspected. Word is he didn't break anything obvious, so he probably won't get trashed.” Slit dabbed at Nux's face. “Stop it, Nux,” Slit blinked hard, swallowing. “No more tears.”

“We have to go see him.”

“No, we have to get back to work. We'll get in trouble if we don't. We can see him later, after supper. We'll sneak over there together while Skew's eating.”

“I want to go see the Ace now.”

“No. We'll get in trouble with the Redthumbs. He's knocked out cold anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw them carry him in.” Slit looked away. “He's not bleeding, so he'll be fine.”

“What if he doesn't wake up?”

“Nux.”

“What if he gets trashed and sent down to the Wretched?”

“Nux!”

“What if--”

“Stop thinking like that!” Slit gave Nux a sharp shake. “You can't worry about anyone other than yourself. Caring about an old War Boy like the Ace is just gonna get you hurt. Stop it!”

“Slit...” Nux stared up at him, trembling, and then he broke down in sobs.

“Nux, you foolish...” Guilty, Slit dragged the boy close, putting his arms around him tight. “You can't care about anything so much, especially people.”

Wet drops of hot tears trickled rivulets through the white of his shoulder and irritably, Slit set his hand on Nux's back. Under his fingertips, Slit could feel the ridge of the brand on Nux's back. He moved his hand lower to avoid touching the scar. 

“You're just going to get hurt if you care.”

Nux sobbed, inconsolable. He tried saying something, but the words were lost in his choking sobs.

“Don't come crying to me if we lose him; I told you not to care. He's just another War Boy, like anyone else. Any day he could be gone and we can't do anything about it.”

Slit stroked Nux's back as the younger boy cried himself out, and he sighed, closing his eyes.

“You can't care about me neither, got it? I'm telling you this right now for your own good. If someday I ever fall, you better not cry for me, because I don't want you caring this much about anyone, especially me.”


	7. Chapter 7

The next day, as scheduled, the War Rig and its escort left for Bartertown.

Furiosa had stayed as long as she could with the Ace the night before, holding his hand, his head pillowed on her leg. Until he had woken up with a moan, and dizzy, tried to sit up. Briefly, he didn't recognize her and tried to push her hands off of him, but once he knew where he was, he laid back down. His eyes looked at her blearily, and he closed them with a sigh. From his breathing, she knew he was awake, though he was probably woozy and sick from the blow to his head.

“I'm sorry, Ace. I can't stay. We're making the Bartertown run in the morning.” She had already been out longer than she should have; Coil was waiting and both of them had to get some sleep if they were going to make the long run safely.

She tucked the Ace in with a blanket even though she knew he would probably scoff it as weak, carefully eased his heavy head off and onto a neatly folded blanket. Waving a Redthumb over to keep an eye on the Ace, she left. It would be a long run, seven days total at the very minimum, if everything went right, and that was seven entire days where neither she nor any of the Ace's closest allies could do nothing to help him, to protect him.

*****

Nux came right after supper; Slit helped him sneak into the wheel shrine from the back way and enter the infirmary. The Organics were all gone to supper.

Furiosa was sitting with the Ace, who was laid out on a bench of stone, a blanket covering him. He was out cold. The Ace's limp hand was clasped between Furiosa's, and she was holding it close, pressed against her shoulder.

Softly, she spoke to him, but they couldn't make out her words; she spoke too quietly to hear.

Slit shook his head, whispering. “See, what did I tell you? Someone's already got eyes on the Ace. We'll come back another time.”

*****

Strangely, it was the Dag who spoke first.

“We were seed hunting,” the Dag explained. “That's when you go look for the plants that germinate in hidden places, protected places in the rocks, where there's just enough soil and sunlight and maybe even some groundwater for a little plant to grow, flower, and seed. Even if you can't use 'em, not immediately, it's worth collecting the seeds; we found so many medicinal plants that way.

“I thought I would be all right. We didn't really get road warriors out where we were, and the weather was nice, cloudy to keep the sun off. So I took my rucksack, a few liters of water, and a snack, and headed out to hunt seeds. Thought I'd be back by luncheon, really.

“I don't know if they had been waiting for me. Maybe it was just bad luck; walked into the wrong place at the wrong time. I thought I saw a glimpse of poppies, and when I went to look more closely, it was just a bit of plastic from Before, a scrap of crimson plastic.

“That's when they grabbed me, when I wasn't looking.” The Dag grabbed the collar of her shift, as if to show how she was caught up by the scruff of her collar. “Couldn't say boo to anyone at that point, too scared even to scream. They took me back to their camp; they already had a line of boys, all different ages, mostly about my age or younger, all tied by the hands to a long metal chain.

“We must have wandered near the path on the way to the Citadel. I mean, my people, my Botanists, the ones who raised me. We had a settlement far out, but lots of times we'd wander, searching for plants and seeds to take home. Someone always stayed to water everything back at the settlement, but we had our jobs out wandering the land.”

“You keep saying that. Your people,” Angharad said. “Don't you mean your parents?”

“Nah, I don't know who my real mum and dad are,” the Dag said. “Botanists found me abandoned in the waste as a newborn baby, not a full day old. They saved me and fed me and raised me as their own.”

“Who would leave a baby in the waste?” Capable wondered.

“There are tribes that practice female infanticide,” Angharad explained. “Groups that think girls are a liability. I wouldn't be surprised if this place is one of them.”

“My botanists were always good to me. I called 'em papa, dada, mama, nana, yaya, yeye, and baba, even though they weren't really my kin. But botanists, they don't think that girls are a problem. They like girls; almost half of the ones that raised me were women. So that's why they took me in.” 

“You were lucky.”

“Always have been,” the Dag grinned. “Even that day, maybe.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So we got force-marched, a long ways. Maybe a couple days? I don't remember it clearly. They gave us water and food sometimes, not that much, but enough to get by on. I was real tired, almost wore out my boots, but I kept going. It was awful then, but looking back, it doesn't seem as bad...guess I've forgotten most of it. Lovely thing forgetting.

“They stopped when we were in sight of the Citadel, and met up with their bosses. Showed them the goods. So they stripped us all down to get us cleaned up before taking us out to sale, and when they did, they finally figured out I was a girl.”

“They didn't know before?”

“Botanists all keep our hair cropped real short, just like our fingernails. Keeps things from getting in the way when you're working pollinating or grafting or whatever needs to be done.”

“That seems reasonable.” Capable moved closer to the Dag, putting her arm around her.

“Thus stripped bare, I was revealed to the prying eyes of the harsh world as a girl, a slight and delicate thing compared to the rough-handed slavers. They, those gun-wielding men who stole me from my people, they had conniptions of joy; they meant to sell me to the Immortan Joe direct for top barter. Their boss was real mad though, fiery with wroth; he said something like, 'All this time, and you schlanger-eating smegs couldn't manage to sex them proper?'”

“Why would it matter?”

“Because then I'd get to ride on the back of one of the men instead of hoofing it with the other boy slaves. I guess a girl's valuable once we get to the age that Immortan Joe wants to buy 'em, though not a lot of people wanna feed us until that happens.” The Dag made a face. “Or is pretty enough; I don't know. I don't know what they saw in me.”

“No?”

“Haven't you seen in a looking glass, the Dag?” Angharad wondered.

“Can't say I rightly have. We didn't really have time for that, back home. It was all trying to keep the plants alive, working with water, hunting seeds... not much more.”

“What happened after that?” Angharad asked. “If you're willing to say it.”

“They took me to the Citadel. A War Boy came down the lifts, a tall Imperator named Acosta and some other big War Boys, real muscly types, and he traded for us. First, they spent some time sorting out which boys they wanted; me they wanted right away. Then the Imperator gave 'em a bunch of bullets, a couple tires, and some sparkplugs for the boys, but gave 'em liters of guzzoline, water, and beans for me. Though as a point of pride that seems awful farcical, if you really think about it.”

“You mean, there was more than just you?”

“Oh sure, me, and some little boys, little bitty things, not bigger than twenty seasons old. Five years. No wait, one was about my age; he had a chunk cut out of one of his ears, like this. Course, we never talked or anything, not that whole time walking, so that's about all I know about 'em. I don't know what happened to them. Guess maybe they're War Pups now?”

“What about the rest?”

“I guess they must have marched them off to Gastown or Bulletfarm to tout their wares. I never saw the slavers again. The transaction was quick; as soon as it was over, it was upstairs for a bath and a brand, and in here. Me 'n Herman Melville Moby Dick, for ages and ages upon man. And then you and Angharad came, and that's really the end of that.” The Dag flashed a crooked smile, leaning close to Capable.

 

Capable absently stroked the Dag's pale hair, as if to comfort her, or perhaps herself.

“We were working on the highway, straightening its flow. The flow of a road is like a river, that's what we were always told, a river of people, a river for people, to connect them. Correcting its broken course over centuries was our job; we always believed in it, even if it was used for bad, because more good could come from the road than bad. 

“A small group of us were sent out to do the work. I came along to learn, to improve my skills. Did you know that the tensile strength of concrete is between three and seven hundred psi?

“We made concrete with stored and filtered graywater. I suppose in a way we were rich folk, to even have graywater to spare. It was a big day when we made concrete.

“There was a storm threatening that day. It was nothing big, just a little blow over, so we worked through it with our goggles and our yellow scarves over our faces. The kind of Engineer folks we were, we wore a lot of yellow, mostly on our heads, for safety and visibility. Then at the end of the storm, when the slavers came, it was a huge surprise to us all; we never thought they came that far west. We thought we would be safe because it wasn't worth their gasoline to come so far west, looking for human fodder, but we were wrong.

“By chance our group was mostly men. Perhaps that was fortunate; women would have been treated much differently.

“They shot the men first, one after another, despite the fact that they were all unarmed. Of the children, it was just me and a boy; a neighbors' son who had come to learn the works. He was a little older than me, maybe two or three years. And they took us east, days and days through the waste. They didn't touch me, but the things they did to him...” Capable tensed up. “It made me understand what was in store.”

Angharad took Capable's hand in hers, stroking her hand, but Angharad's thoughts were elsewhere.

“Once they brought me to Bartertown...” Capable shuddered. “Well, I suppose the important part of that is when I met Angharad. In the dark stone enclosure of a shed we clung together, from necessity, and we were lucky to have it, to even have been given a blanket. The others were in vile underground pits, more suitable for animals than humans, reeking of waste and filth.

“We weren't there too long. Maybe a week, by the old count. Seven long days, hearing the wails and sobs of the slaves, the cracking of whips...the shouts of the men as they called to gods that could no longer hear. The screams of the women. And the crying children...” Capable shivered.

“Whatever you think about the Citadel being awful,” and here they all looked at each other, remembering the grisly luncheon of the other day. “It's still better than anywhere else I've been out here, in the east. It's still better than Bartertown.”

Capable closed her mouth; she was done.

 

Stillness, silence. Angharad played her fingers over Capable's hand, until Capable slipped her hand away so as to draw Angharad close against her shoulder.

“Road warriors raided our settlement. Everything was burned. I was asleep, until the fire woke me.” Angharad touched her face, the old and latticed scars, the mark of a woven sleeping mat imprinted forever onto her face.

“They killed for pleasure. They tortured for pleasure. They raped for pleasure. They laughed as the blood ran. Everything was destroyed in one night, generations of work. Then Bartertown. Then the Citadel.”

Angharad stood up, slipping out from Capable's arm, her expression hard. There were no tears left for anyone, not for the those that were lost, not for herself.

She stared out the narrow rectangle of the window, where she could only see light and beyond, the thin hazy patch of blue, a shattered ceramic chip from the great mosaic of the engulfing sky.

“They killed the world. They killed my world.” 

*****

The Ace woke up from a light doze; a War Pup, he thought, distantly, and as he tried to remember where he was, why he had a blanket over his shoulder, the War Pup hauled itself onto his lap.

He put his arm around the boy, patting his back, and tried to say something, but the pain in his face was a dull, deep throb, and somehow it seemed that he couldn't get his mouth working, not the way he wanted.

It took a minute to remember what had happened, though much of it was a blur, riding Moto-Lancer one moment, waking up in the Citadel the next, Furiosa by his side.

He wondered where she was now.

The Ace opened his eyes. Slit stood before him, jaw set in disapproval, and Nux clung to his shoulder, sobbing.

“Ace, Ace...You're alive.”

The Ace ran his hand over Nux's head with a sigh and pulled him off, wincing as sore muscles and bones reasserted their existence. Pointing to Slit to take charge of Nux, he motioned for them to leave.

Slit took Nux by the shoulders, but Nux pulled away and returned to the Ace's side.

“Go.” The word was all mush in his mouth, incomprehensible, so he gave the command, the hand gesture they used on the road to go, slicing the air with his outstretched palm.

“Ace, what can we do? I want to help.”

The Ace shook his head and he gestured, a sharp, unequivocal motion. _Go_.

*****

Night fell deep and the evening wind scoured the land cold before fading to merely a breath of breeze. Bright, icy moonlight lit the world with an almost radioactive glow, poisoning the tainted world blue. Tomorrow morning they would arrive at Bartertown; everyone was tired but excited. They stopped the convoy on a high ridge overlooking the waste, where it would be hard to be ambushed, and took the customary rest stop to eat, to dress, to nap.

Furiosa sat with Coil on a rocky promontory, separated from the others. Below, the deep blue shadows of the waste; above, the specter of the wheel moon. With a straight razor, she carefully trimmed off his growing beard. It too was stripped of the nuances of color, appearing black, but she knew that like his hair, his beard came in a deep, dark brown that hinted gold in the bright light of the sun.

“There, done.”

“And nary a nick or scratch,” Coil said, touching his face, feeling the smooth curve of his jaw. She wiped off the blade and handed it to him. Leaning forward, she let him shear off the soft burr of hair that had grown over the last few days.

“When the moon rises full like this, I can believe that the world died long ago. The entirety of the waste is only a land of the dead, full of wandering ghosts. Corpses and revenants, just like us,” he said to her in a low murmur, as he trimmed off her hair with deft strokes.

“I'm more worried about the living. Like the Ace,” she said softly, staring at his boots. The lacing had come undone on his left boot, so she retied it firmly and secured the loose ends.

“You can't worry about what you can't directly control,” Coil replied; he was much better at this than her, much faster, and he wiped the razor off and handed it back to her.

He dipped his head, and she took it in her hands. His hair tickled under her palm, and she ran her fingers over the growing fuzz.

“It's too bad we have to take this off. I like how it feels.”

“We can't look like ordinary people if we want to impress,” Coil replied. “I'd rather look like a War Boy than a drab, ordinary man, any day.”

Carefully, she shaved him smooth. After, they set to touching up their white, putting on a heavy, inhuman coat for all the world to see. So that when they strode through Bartertown, even the toughest, most brutal and most feral of men would flinch at their sight, at their scars and the white and the brand.

She didn't need as much white as him and she was good at touching up her own without anyone's help, but he smiled as he dabbed a little behind her ear.

“You always forget the back of the ear,” he said softly.

“No, I don't. You're mistaken.” And she smeared a double handful of the icy wet white onto his back to make him flinch.

*****

Rumor spread fast; the Ace's broken jaw meant that he had trouble eating and drinking, and word had it that he could be trashed any day.

Nux worked it out: if Imperator Acosta was here, a single word from him could prevent it. If the Half-life Nobles were here, they would argue and stall the Organic Mechanic until the Ace was better. If Furiosa was here, she would have gathered a coalition of fellow Drivers and Lancers to force the Organic Mechanic's hand. 

But they were all gone to Bartertown and wouldn't be back for another four days.

So that left the Revheads, the War Pups, and Organics. The Organic Mechanic wouldn't listen to his own boys; he was their Imperator, in fact if not by name. War Pups had no real pull; even threatening the Mechanic with Corpus Colossus didn't work; that man feared no one, because everyone great or small needed his skills.

Revheads, Nux thought. That was their best option. He knew them all by name, but he couldn't ask any of them; they wouldn't understand. After all, if the Ace was trashed, that meant someone would be moved up to Half-life Noble, which in turn would shift everyone around, giving a couple Revheads a chance at Lancer, a chance they might have been waiting for for ages.

Button, Nux realized. He could ask Button; they had been in the same cohort, had been trained together by the Ace. Button could help them.

 

He found Button working on a timing belt, trying to match the marks. 

“Button!” 

The War Boy looked up briefly, before returning to work, and Nux waited impatiently until Button turned off the engine. It seemed as though the War Boy had grown older, had matured in a way that made him seem more distant, cold.

“Yeah?”

“We need your help. They want to trash the Ace...”

Button glanced around, looking at his fellow Revheads, before drawing Nux aside, to a quiet corner of the shop. He knelt down to meet Nux's eyes, and Nux tried to remember if Button was always this tall or if he had grown while Nux had stayed small.

“You shouldn't come around unless you're assigned to this shop.”

“But Button, we need your help.”

“No. Not risking my promotion over politics. Heard they might make me Lancer in another hundred days, so I must keep my head down.”

“Don't you care about the Ace?”

“Sure, but there isn't anything I can do about it.” Button glanced back nervously as his fellow Revheads started looking over, curious. “Sorry, Nux. Just can't help you this time. Now off with you, get back to the trainer. You shouldn't be in here unless you're working.”

“Button...”

“Come on, get going.” Button guided him out the door.

 

Undeterred, Nux reasoned it through and realized there was another approach. However, he couldn't do it alone; he needed the help of his fellow War Pups. Morsov agreed immediately, but it was harder convincing Slit to agree to come along. In the end, coming along was all Slit was willing to do.

Nux took Slit and Morsov each by the hand. Above his head where they thought he could not see, the two boys glared at each other briefly.

“Oi! You two.” Nux pulled away and turned, straightening himself up to his full height, doing his best impression of the Ace. “Knock that off. We need to work together as a crew, the kind of crew that trusts and respects each other. Someday when we're grown up, we'll all be riding the Fury Road together, where being enemies will just get people killed by accident. Un-Lived and Un-Witnessed.”

Slit blinked in surprise; he was not expecting this sort of speech from Nux. Slit looked down at Nux and then back at Morsov, whose expression had turned thoughtful.

“Just because it comes from little Nux doesn't mean we shouldn't listen.” Morsov smiled wryly. “Maybe because it comes from little Nux means we should listen more.” He offered Slit his hand.

“You're really the nosy type, aren't you, Nux?” Slit looked away from Morsov, but he took Morsov's hand, clasping it tight, giving it a hard squeeze. “Heard you were a Buzzard, once, Morsov.”

“So? What of it?” Morsov shrugged it off. “Ain't one now.”

“You don't sound like one.”

“It's cuz I'm not a Buzzard. I'm a War Boy, War Boy to the core.”

“What you did sounded historic. Walking to the Citadel,” Slit said, grudging every word. “If it's true.”

“It's true.” Morsov spat on the ground. “Hate all Buzzards. Filth, all of them. I'd rather die in the waste un-Witnessed than live another second with my _dedushka_.”

“What's that?” Nux was surprised; he had never heard Morsov say so much about his past.

“ _Batya_ 's _batya_. Um. Daddy's daddy.” Morsov looked down, fiddling with his belt. “Got beat up all the time. And worse.” The last words were so quiet as to almost be lost, unheard, but Nux caught it.

“Oh. Is that why you walked away?” Slit's eyes narrowed, remembering something unwanted.

Morsov's eyes glittered darkly and he blinked. “Always heard that if I was bad, I'd get taken by evil War Boys and eaten up.” He sniffled, and made a fierce grin that looked more like a grimace, a humorless snarl. “So I went to get taken and eaten up. But turns out it was good to be a bad _malchik_.”

Nux took Morsov's hand again, and Morsov gave his hand a firm squeeze. Nux reached over to Slit, who pulled away before Nux could touch him.

“Anyway, Nux, don't we have something better to do than gossip?” Slit was impatient; he wanted this over with. “I don't have all day.”

“Sure. Let's go see the Organic Mechanic.” Nux offered, saying it casually as if it didn't mean much, as if the prospect didn't scare him to the core of his bones. 

Slit slung his arm around Nux, dragging him close, away from Morsov, as they walked to the infirmary.

 

“Oh, a Blood Shed life is the life for me,” the Organic Mechanic sang, as his boys strung up a new bloodbag, hitting it in the crotch with the electric prod to make it squirm. “Giddiyap bum bump tweedle dum dee dee.”

The War Pups passed the Ace; he was asleep, and one of the Organic pups was with him, eating from the Ace's bowl of leftover mush.

Morsov glared at the young boy, indignant, but Nux shook his head and tugged Morsov along; they had bigger problems to deal with.

“Hey. Who said you could come in?” The Organic Mechanic stopped his singing and glared at the trio of War Pups. “Visitin hours are never.”

“We're here to cut a deal,” Nux said, taking the initiative. “We want to know if you're going to trash the Ace.”

“The Ace, the Ace...who's that?” The Organic Mechanic muttered, wondering out loud, squinting and pulling faces as though he were trying to remember. Slit rolled his eyes; it was obviously a ploy, but then Nux fell right into it.

“The Ace, the Half-life Noble with the broken jaw. Ten and a half hands tall, gray eyes; wears the brand on his chest.”

“Oh, him. That's right, that 'the Ace'. What about him?” The Organic Mechanic arched his eyebrow.

“Is he all right?”

“Well, I don't really know rightly,” the Organic Mechanic shrugged, an exaggerated gesture. “Seems like it's touch and go these days. Could be a corpse, any minute, really, poor thing.”

Slit leaned down to whisper into Nux's ear. “Don't listen to him.”

Nux glanced at him, but then the Organic Mechanic stepped forward and he lost grip of Slit's hand, backing up.

“You said somethin about makin a deal,” the Organic Mechanic grinned, and he wiped at his mouth, at the trickle of drool that tended to accumulate on the point of his lower lip whenever he was focused on a task. “I'm listening, pup. Why in fact, you could say I'm all ears.”

“What would it take?” Nux asked, as the Organic Mechanic slowly descended upon him, pushing him back. Slit interceded subtly, stepping forward to block the man's forward progress and the Organic Mechanic turned on his heel, changing direction as if completely by intent.

“To not trash the Ace.” Morsov added, like a fool, and Slit looked away, trying to curb his tongue; the two were going about it in completely the wrong way.

“Oh, right hmm. Him. That 'the Ace'. Well. Let me think about it. What could I possibly need?” The Organic Mechanic took a step around his domain, hands gesturing to the many halls of the infirmary that branched off from the wheel shrine like the broken spokes of a wheel spiking out from a central hub. “I have all the Organics I could ask for, my War Boys that do the heavy lifting. I got me a bunch of pups to do everything else. Why, I'm just the king of my own realm right here, with a crown of hair and a leather sash of office around my chest, pinned with all my sharp medals and awards. Tell me, boys. Whatcha got for your Uncle Organic that you think is worth tradin for an old 'n trashed out War Boy?”

“Bars. We got food bars,” Nux offered. “Three and a half.”

“Three 'n a half, huh?” The Organice Mechanic peered down at Nux. “That's a fair fortune for a couple War Pups, ain't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that's awful kind of you, but I won't do it for less than twelve.” The Organic Mechanic grinned at them, a cheerless smirk. “Twelve, or it ain't happenin, and the first three and a half are just the down payment; I'd need twelve more on top of that.”

“That's fifteen and a--” Nux yelped, but Slit grabbed him and slung his hand over Nux's mouth before Nux could say anything else.

“I'll give ya three days, boys.” The Organic Mechanic winked, a glint of dark pleasure in his eyes. “You give me that three and a half now, and then twelve in three days time, and maybe I'll listen to your question about...what was his name again?”

“The--” Slit grabbed Morsov too, gloved hand over Morsov's mouth. 

“We'll consider it,” Slit said, as he dragged his fellow War Pups out of the infirmary by sheer brute force. “We'll get back to you.”


	8. Chapter 8

Furiosa grit her teeth and hefted another heavy bar of metal onto the sturdy shelf inside the War Rig, stacking the metals before securing them tightly behind a grooved sliding board. If there was one benefit to the triangle run, Furiosa thought, it was that it rarely ran slaves. The rig had been loaded to the ceiling with goods ordered by Gastown and the Bulletfarm, mostly ingots of metals such as copper, aluminum, iron, lead, and tin, ready to go into the forges to be turned into bullets or worked into necessary parts. 

Once they finished loading, she came back to the car shivering, the cold, dry wind that scoured the waste quickly stealing the moisture beaded on her brow. 

“Done?” Coil was leaning against the car keeping guard, eyes scanning the crowd that always came to gawk at the War Boys, his hand stroking the stock of the assigned rifle, his handgun at his side.

“Done.” She leaned against the car beside him, sore and exhausted.

“Why don't you go in and take a nap, Lancer? I have another hour of this before I can join you.”

“Sounds lovely, Driver. It'll be nice and warm inside.” She yawned, but then scrambled to straighten up; Imperator Acosta was coming around.

Coil took his cue from her and quickly stood at attention as the Imperator came by.

“Coil. Furiosa. A word?” The Imperator gestured, and the two exchanged a quick look of concern.

“Dart! Take over.” The Imperator gestured for Coil to hand over the rifle to a nearby Lancer, and together the three of them went up top the War Rig, to the back gunner's nest where they could have some privacy.

 

The back gunner's nest doubled as bunks for the Half-life Nobles on the road, but it also was sometimes used as a sort of makeshift office for Imperator Acosta. Coil squeezed in beside Furiosa; they sat pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on a narrow bench. Acosta faced the two crewmates, looking sternly down his hatchet-nose, his dark brown skin in sharp contrast with the white they wore.

“It's come to my attention on this run that the two of you have been doing double duty as Driver.”

Before Furiosa could speak, Coil quickly intervened.

“That was my decision, Imperator, and I take full responsibility. We ran the patrol last week with Furiosa training as Driver, and I think Furiosa's got what it takes. Did some fine driving out on the waste, beat every driver on the practice runs and saved the Ace with a historic maneuver.”

“So I've heard.” Imperator Acosta fixed his dark eyes on Furiosa. “Is it true that you took out two motorcycles and a car with one shot?”

Furiosa nodded slowly. “Y-yes.” She cleared her throat. 

“How?”

“Come on, Furiosa. Don't be shy; it's your time to shine.” Coil nudged her gently.

“Uh. T-took the car into a handbrake turn, but held the handbrake longer than necessary, to get more rotation because I had to go further to hit the other car. Didn't mean to hit the bikes; was mostly trying to block them from getting to the Ace. Oh, and we came into the turn just a little too fast.”

“Fourth?”

“Yes. Not top speed but pretty fast.”

“Almost knocked my white off, it did. We did at least a 1080, maybe more,” Coil grinned, and the Imperator's lips curved faintly, amused.

“Impressive. Very clever, to intentionally make what would normally be a mistake, but using that to your advantage. This, I feel is a sign of talent, a rare talent indeed.” The Imperator tapped his cheekbone thoughtfully, feeling at the ridge of an old scar that curved along his face. “Have you considered being a Driver, Furiosa?”

“Um.” Furiosa looked down, and she could feel Coil's hand cup her shoulder through the fabric of her bodice, so that he was not touching her skin directly. He gave her a little squeeze of encouragement. “I...”

“Well?”

“What Furiosa means is yes, Imperator Acosta,” Coil said, and his hand tightened on her shoulder, to cover the trembling of his fingers. “I think she'd make a great Driver, and I'd be honored to drive beside her in the escort, any day, anywhere.”

“No.” She blurted out. “I mean. Uh. Would be honored to drive. Anyone would want that. But my arrangement is fine right now. Would rather not switch crewmates at this time, if that's all right with you, Imperator.”

“I see.” Imperator Acosta nodded. “Somehow I suspected this might be the case. All right then. I'll give you some time to think about it, Furiosa. For now, you can continue to take turns at the wheel. It's unorthodox; goes against custom perhaps, but then again, I've never strictly followed custom, not when it's pointless orthodoxy. It would be a shame if you lost your skills at the wheel, Furiosa. See to it that you keep up your training. Coil, I'm leaving Furiosa's training to you. I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do at live practice next week. But for now, the two of you get some rest. We're heading out in three hours.”

“Early?” Coil wondered. “Don't we usually leave tomorrow morning?”

“I want to return to the Citadel as fast as possible.” Imperator Acosta frowned to himself. “I don't trust that degenerate with my Half-life Noble.”

 

“You really turned down a drive, Furiosa? For me?” Once the door was closed, Coil looked down at her from the driver's seat. Furiosa stretched out on a thin blanket spread out on the stripped out interior, her boots kicked up on a reserve fuel tank. 

“Was that what Acosta was getting at? Giving me a drive?” 

“Don't play the fool with me. I know you understood what he was offering.” Coil caught her eye. “Furiosa, you shouldn't have turned it down. I think you'd make a great Driver.”

“He said I should think about it.” Furiosa stared at the unadorned metal ceiling of the car, and yawned. Coil leaned the Driver's seat back flat, so he he could lie down as well, but he turned around so they were facing. “But I've already decided.”

“You don't even know what you're turning down, do you? A higher spot in the line with the other Drivers, better wages, your own Revhead crew, your own Lancer...”

“That stuff isn't important to me.”

“Your own drive, Furiosa. Maybe even a pursuit car, the way Acosta was talking.”

“I don't know what I'd do with my own car,” Furiosa stared out the window. From here, she could only see sky; not the War Rig, not the other members of the escort standing guard, not the milling crowds of Bartertown. Just the pure, empty sky, devoid of even clouds.

“You could have it set up to your own specifications.”

“I like the way our car is set up now. I like how it handles. I don't know if I could get used to another car.”

“You turned it down for me...” Coil sighed, unbelieving. “'Would rather not switch crewmates'. I never thought I'd hear anyone turn down a drive like that, least of all you. I never thought I'd see the day.”

“Don't get too full of yourself, Driver. I have my own reasons.”

“Oh, you won't admit it, Lancer, but I'm your best mate now.” Coil smiled, and she couldn't help notice how boyish it made him look when his clear blue eyes lit up like that.

“I'd rather not take on some unknown crewmate and have to train him to my style. _You_ don't need any additional training.”

“Admit it, Lancer. We're best mates and you don't want to leave me.” Coil reached down, offering her his hand.

“Driver, I don't know what you're talking about.” Furiosa swatted at him, batting his hand away.

He ran his hand fondly over her smooth head. “Next time, he offers, take the drive. Don't hold back on account of me.”

“I'm happy with my current setup.” Furiosa said, and she took his hand briefly, holding it to her shoulder. “Let's just leave things the way they are.”

*****

“What can we do to get twelve bars of food?” Nux wondered out loud. “Do you think someone would trade work?”

“I know what some of them would trade for a food bar. Like make you drink used engine oil,” Morsov said, frowning. “But I wouldn't ever do that. And neither should you.”

“We,” Slit said, dragging them into the empty Lancer's practice shop, “Are not going to do anything. We are going to go to work, keep our heads down, and wait it out.”

Nux looked around the empty room and climbed up onto one of the benches lining the room. “Why would we do that? We should be trying to save the Ace, not doing nothing.”

“Because it's a bluff.” Frustrated, Slit kicked at a loose practice lance, and it clattered away with a metal clang. “The Organic Mechanic just wants to see us squirm. He's messing with us. He's not really going to trash the Ace.”

“How do you know that?” Morsov wandered around the room, looking at the practice lances lining the walls, of different lengths and designs, each made by individual Lancers.

“Because it's obvious, that's why.” Slit chased after the thunder stick and picking it up, sent it flying across the room. The dented, sand-weighted canister clunked against the back wall. “I can't believe how easily he's fooled you two.”

Morsov snapped back. “What makes you think you know so much?”

“Because I know what it's like when adults try to cheat you,” Slit snarled back. “You don't know what it's like to grow up in Bartertown.”

“Yeah? What's so great about Bartertown?”

“Great?” Slit laughed, bitterly. “It's a filthhole, full of raging ferals. Mum and da were fools, just like the two of you. Slaves, the kind that get themselves made slaves because they buy their way into Bartertown with what little they got left, get in debt once they get inside, and never figure a way to buy themselves out. That's why I used to go around the markets and the flats, grabbing and selling what I could, to help buy out their debts.”

Nux stared at Slit. Slit, who adhered more deeply than anyone else did to the unspoken rule of not speaking about one's past. Slit who had never said more than a few words to him about the Thunderdome.

“There's an underground market, the kind that's off the books, not really allowed. They sell stolen stuff there, mostly small things, like stuff a kid could grab quick and get away with. I used to climb buildings to get in, when people were out for the day, grab a few things, and run. You think it's hard hanging onto a car, you try climbing a building fifty, sixty hands tall, to steal an apple or a pear. It doesn't move around, but there are a lot less handholds than a car. That's why I used to watch the lizards do it, to get an idea of how to make the climb.

“So there's this guy who buys in the underground, and I went to him all the time. He gave me pretty good deals, is what I thought. One time he introduces me to this man, a trader.” Slit made a face. He grabbed the pole of the practice lance, and gave it another throw, angry, vicious, before stalking after it for another round. “This man says he'll give me ten decas of new screws if I come with him and do some stupid, easy job for him. So I said that sounded fine; he was dressed real nice, new driving leathers, tungsten carbide buckles on his clothes; a real rich kind of fellow, the kind of trader that comes in for a few days from the waste and spends a ton around town, buying and selling.

“I think I had maybe two thousand, two thousand five hundred days then. I thought I was pretty smart about what I was doing, but maybe I was still too stupid to be trusted to breathe on my own, so I followed him, because surely a rich man like that wouldn't welch on a deal. 'Bust a deal, face the wheel'; that's what the ancient words of Bartertown say.

“He had a room hired out, and we went there to iron out the business. Let's just say he wasn't interested in me stealing for him or doing any sort of job that's worth talking about, not with the door locked behind him.”

“What happened?” Morsov asked.

“None of your business, Morsov, but after that, I knew for a fact, that you can't trust anyone. Get it? No one's gonna give you ten decas of anything for nothing. The Organic Mechanic's a filthy, stinking liar, and he just wants to see the three of us squirm on his line. I say we call his bluff, and do nothing, because if he was going to trash the Ace, he would have done it already by now.”

“Slit...” Nux blinked. “Do you really think...”

“I know I'm right, and you had better trust me on this, Nux. Because you'll regret going around and trying to get those twelve bars. Either you're going to end up looking like worthless, begging trash, or someone's gonna make you do something you're not going to like, something you're not going to live down.” Slit gave them a hard look. “Your reputation's everything around here; you end up sounding like a beggar or selling yourself for food bars, you're gonna end up getting thrown out of the cohort or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Don't you listen to the talk around the shops? There are a couple low-ranked Revheads, shop-bound War Boys that do all sorts of nasty stuff for extra.” Slit made a face. “I don't even know what they use the extra for, but I know how they get it.”

“How?”

“Morsov, use your ears sometime. Just because the Ace says 'eyes on' doesn't mean you shouldn't stop listening.” Slit shook his head. “I can't explain everything in life that there is to explain.”

“I didn't know.” Shocked, Nux shook his head. “But maybe you're right.”

“Of course, I'm right. Maybe you've been coddled by growing up in the Citadel your entire life, but I know what men are like,” Slit said, and a strange tremor ran through him as Nux watched. Slit shook it off. “You can't trust people. You can't worry about them, you can't care about them. Don't go trying to find those twelve bars. And don't go near the Organic Mechanic again. I'm warning you. I'll thrash the two of you myself if either of you try anything stupid.”

“What happened to your parents, Slit?” Morsov asked.

“Who could possibly know or want to know?” Slit stomped out of the shop, and as he did so Nux overheard Slit muttering to himself. “Probably bought their way out by now. Seven deca of beans is a lot of beans...”

*****

Without the majority of Drivers around, work ended early, late in the afternoon. Slit kept his eyes on Nux and Morsov, but they didn't do anything other than what they were meant to be doing, their little jobs around the shop. No mentions of food bars, no mentions of the Ace. Morsov, he could trust to listen to what he had to say; despite their brief and bitter rivalry, Morsov seemed to be of good nature and had put most of it behind him. Nux on the other hand, was the type that was hard to dissuade once a dumb idea got in his head.

“Nux.”

“Yeah?”

“Come on, I want to go for a walk.” 

“Um.” Surprised, Nux followed him. 

Slit made his way to the twisting, winding stairs that led to the farm atop the War Tower. Nux followed him briskly as Slit clomped his way up the steps.

Breathless, they made it to the top, and together they sat down for a moment on a conveniently placed bench to catch their breaths, blinking against the bright sun.

“You been up here before?” Slit asked, before long. He stood up and walked around the path, looking up at the terraces. He had been here a few times by himself; no one stopped the War Pups from wandering around the Citadel. Though War Boys in general would have been turned away, it was assumed that pups were carrying messages or on some other such errand. He had even made it over to the Immortan's Tower a few times, pretending to be running messages, and had seen some breeders, the milkbags, and even once, from a distance, Immortan Joe himself.

“Sure. I worked here almost every day when I was little,” Nux said. He followed, looking around. “Used to pick beans and greens up here, when I wasn't running errands in the warren.”

“You were an Organic?”

“Everyone who's little starts off there.” Nux said. “They don't pick pups for the cohort that are under 3000 days old.”

Slit paused to think it through, to do the count. “You were too little, weren't you? How'd you make it though?”

“I guess I got lucky.” Nux smiled. “Look, it was right over here.” Nux grabbed Slit by the hand and together they ran up the stairs of the terraces. Winding their way through the dusty paths, the green of the plants fresh in their noses, Slit suddenly recalled the dusty streets of the Bartertown markets, the wilted green produce yellowing in the sun, the sharp chatter of the traders.

Nux led him to a sod house. No one lived there; it was used for storage. Farm tools lined the walls neatly, spades and pitchforks, a three-tined garden fork. They went inside, into the deep shade, and Nux sat on the stone-carved bed under the window.

“I was taking a break; the War Boy in charge told us we could do what we liked for five minutes, so I came in to get out of the sun. Then the Ace came up top, out from the warren and he stopped there, right where you're standing, just outside the doorway. I recognized him from around the warren, but I didn't know his name yet. I knew he was a Half-life Noble, but even if I didn't know that you could tell he was important, because he was wearing the chrome on his belt.”

“The canister?” Slit gestured to the empty loop on his primary tool belt, the loop where he planned to carry the chrome once he was promoted to Lancer; that loop he kept intentionally clear, for the future.

“Yeah, that. The Ace said he was the new trainer, and they were short a few boys in the cohort; he only had two boys, Button and Morsov. There were two other boys, but they got hurt and ended up Organics.”

“Right. Heard about that.”

“So here was the Ace, with all his tools and his chrome and I didn't think that they'd ever pick me, but the War Boy in charge had all of us line up outside, along the path. The Ace looked at us, at the size of our feet, our hands, at how tall we were, and picked out eight of us, leaving out the littlest ones. And then...you know what he did?”

“What?”

“He took out one of his wrenches, a small one, and tossed it to us, one after another, to see how we would catch it and throw it back to him. The ones who fumbled the catch went back to work. So there were five of us left after that.”

“Then what?”

“Then the Ace came over and took each of us aside for a little talk. Most of the others went first but they weren't picked and got sent back to work. I was littlest, so I thought he'd leave me out too. He took Notch then, setting him aside to take into the cohort, even though Notch was more nervy back then than he is now.”

“Sometimes I'm surprised Notch is in our cohort. He's scared of his own shadow.”

“I was too, until I saw him go up the car the first time. He's not the best, but he's crazy. Fuel-injected high-octane on the car, tiniest of miniature actuators off of it.” Nux laughed. “I wouldn't want to be a Buzzard if he was riding Lancer. So! The Ace finally came by to me. He showed me this toy he had, different colored nuts screwed on a bolt, and asked me to assemble and reassemble it in different color combinations and with either left or right hands, as quick as I was able to. Then he asked me how old I was.”

“Did you lie?” 

“No, I couldn't, not to the Ace. He scared me too bad. I thought about lying, but the truth just came flying out of my mouth when he looked me in the eye. He said I was about four hundred days short of the minimum age. He looked disappointed, and I felt terrible that I wasn't old enough, like I had let down both of us, personally.

“He said, 'Shame you're too young. Left-wheeled, quick, clever...can tell you've got the horsepower too, but just don't know if they'll let me put you in the cohort. Got a feelin you'd be real good at this, but you're too young.'

“And then he sits there, staring out at the waste, and I'm thinking that this was my one chance at being something other than an Organic all my life and that it's too bad that I'll be picking beans and greens forever and ever until I die, but then the Ace looks at me and he smiles. You know, he doesn't smile that much but when he does, his face completely changes. He set his hand on my shoulder and said, 'What's a few hundred days, eh? It won't matter once you're a grown War Boy, and maybe now's a good time to learn, while you're still quick on your feet. Come on, up with you, let's get that farm dirt off and get you a new coat of white. Tomorrow you're ridin high, Nux. No more pickin beans for you.'”

“He knew your name?”

“I think he got it from the War Boy in charge. So I said goodbye, and the Ace took me and Notch down to the warren, and that day we joined the cohort with Button and Morsov.”

“You like him, don't you? The Ace?”

“He raised me up. I would have been on the farm forever, dying mediocre if it wasn't for him.” Nux sighed. “Button, Morsov, and Notch are all older than me; I never really had much in common with them. I'm the youngest and I'll be in the cohort the longest. When you're promoted and gone, it'll still be at least another thousand days before I'm a Revhead too, probably more. In some ways, the Ace is all I got for certain, even though I know we can't be friends because he's so much older and so much higher.”

“It's not like having a mother or a father though.” 

“I don't know what that's like.” Nux looked at Slit curiously. “What's it like? I mean, for real. Not like the Immortan. Not that he's not my daddy; he's everybody's daddy, but not like...mine, not personally. If that makes sense. I mean, I love him because he's my daddy but it's...I don't know how to explain it.”

“To have a mother and a father?” Slit laughed, bitterly, and he stood, propelling himself up as if unable to sit any longer. “Your own very personal mother and father? Where do you think I got this scar? It was supposed to keep me from getting stolen and sold by slavers, but I think mum put it on so that I'd think twice about stealing if someone could recognize me so easy. Not that it kept me from being sold; my da was the one who sold me to the Ace.”

“Really?”

“Really. The War Rig came to trade and the Ace came by with a War Boy. The woman one, with the white shirt.”

“Furiosa.”

“Right, Furiosa. The Ace saw me waiting for my da, and asked to talk to him. So they talk for a few minutes, where I can't hear, and the next thing I know, they're shaking hands, Furiosa's handing him a promissory note for my price, and the Ace chains my hand to his belt so I can't run off. I should have known I couldn't trust the old man.”

“You mean, the Ace?”

“I mean, my da.” Slit scowled, and he kicked over a rake. It fell to the ground with a clatter. “The Ace isn't so bad.”

“No.” Nux sighed. “If he gets trashed, we'll be stuck with a new trainer. Probably somebody not as good. Dull and rusty.”

“He won't be trashed. I know.”

“How do you know?”

“I've got eyes on better than you,” Slit said. “The Organic Mechanic is a liar and a cheat. Trust me, I know how to spot one. Whatever he said the other day about cutting a deal, I want you to promise me, promise me that you won't try to get those bars.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I don't care. I just...” Slit punched the wall, sending a trickle of soil to the ground. “I hate men like him. Thinking he can mess around with some kids just because they don't know any better. It's not for you; it's because I hate him.”

“You don't even know him.”

“I know a dozen men like him. And he'll bust a deal faster than you can turn to reach for the knife he's planted in your back.”

“Slit...”

“Promise, Nux.” Slit came over to the stone bed, glaring down at Nux. “Promise me you'll let it go.”

“I...”

“Promise!”

“All right, fine.” Nux gave Slit his hand, and they clasped their hands tight, sealing the deal. “If it means so much to you.”

“It doesn't. It doesn't mean anything,” Slit spat, and pulled away. “Idiot, fool, incompetent...” He muttered to himself, frustrated. “Oh, and Nux?”

“Yeah?”

“You better keep this talk we had to yourself, or I'll punch you.”

“Sure. I promise.” Nux managed a hint of a smile that Slit could not see, his back turned to the younger boy.

“Come on, let's go down and eat. I'm hungry.”

“Here, have my half-bar. It's still a few hours until supper.”

“Really? You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. After all, we're not going to be using it for anything else, why not eat it?”

“Here, Nux. Take half. No, the bigger half. You need more food if you wanna be tall enough to ride Lancer. I've grown out of two pairs of trousers since I came here, and you're still on the one. If you wanna be more than seven hands tall, you're gonna have to eat more.” 

“Thanks.”

Slit paused, chewing on the bar, looking down the length of the terraces. The deep, brilliant green, the faint sparkle of water on the leaves of the plants, and below, the engulfing waste, an empty, endless procession of rock and dust broken by the tiny gray splotch of distant Gastown, its smokestacks spewing black.

Slit's eyes fixed on the horizon, at the band of blue cinched tight around the world.

“You won't get to see this much longer, will you?” Nux asked. He took a tiny bite out of the crumbly food bar, staring at the little toothmarks that he left. Glancing at Slit eating, he took a bigger bite, swallowing it down.

“No. They don't let War Boys up here unless they're Organics.”

“How much longer do you have?”

“Three, four hundred days, maybe.”

“When you're a War Boy, will you still remember me?”

“Yeah, probably.” 

“Will we still be friends?”

“I don't know.” Slit answered honestly.

“Someday, when I'm a Lancer, will you be my Driver?”

“No promises.” The slowly-setting sun turned the world around them gold and sunlight caught in the still, dusty air, painting long shimmering lines like straight, perfectly graded roads through the sky. There was a strange, unnatural quality to the light, a beauty that Slit realized he would always remember.

Slit opened his gloved hand to the warm, golden light, filling his palm, but when he closed his hand upon it, he had nothing.

“What about the other way around?” Nux wondered.

“Can't think that far ahead.” Slit looked down at Nux, who was staring off at a distant, unknown point, the way he did when he worked out complicated problems. He reached out to draw Nux close, to press him against his side.

Nux's skin was cold beneath his fingers.

“Yeah.” Nux wound his arms around Slit's waist, holding him tight.

Together, they walked down from the War Farm in silence. 

*****

Having felt unwell for a few days, Angharad woke to find a splotch of red staining her white shift.


	9. Chapter 9

The War Rig and its escort made the return trip in record time; neither Gastown nor Bulletfarm were ready to receive their goods when they arrived and the War Boys of their brother settlements scrambled to unload. It seemed that even the Immortan Joe was surprised to see them back so soon; the crew stood around and waited for quite some time at the lifts for the Immortan to make his appearance at the balcony and welcome them back.

Imperator Acosta was first to see to the Ace; he strode off while the majority of the escort was still coming up the lifts. When he returned and gravely made the announcement that the Ace was fine, a brief cheer was raised up among the exhausted crew.

After parking the cars and supervising the unloading of the goods owed to the Citadel, the crew went for customary post-run baths and clean-ups, followed by a good supper at home, their first hot meal in days.

The Ace left the infirmary that very evening; Imperator Acosta himself helped the Ace back to the Half-life Noble nest.

The Ace looked haggard and worn out from pain and fatigue. He had lost flesh, and there were dark circles under his eyes from many nights of poor sleep. Furiosa made him drink some enriched cooking water that the crew lead somehow obtained from the kitchen, the thin soup that was leached from food bar pressings. If he could not eat much, at least he could drink. 

She helped get him settled on his back in the soft sand so as not to put pressure on his bound jaw, and covered him with a blanket that a War Pup brought over; she knew he was poorly when he didn't shun the bedding. Furiosa stayed by his side that night sharing the blanket, not quite close enough to touch him, but close enough to keep him warm, though she laid her hand on his shoulder, as if to assure herself of his presence.

Coil drowsed at her back, as was the custom with Drivers and Lancers before runs, and oddly, the occasional brush of his back against hers as he shifted in his sleep did not make her flinch as it used to; perhaps she was growing accustomed to him, or perhaps she was just too tired to care.

It was strange to feel like this, Furiosa thought, to feel so safe in the midst of all these men. From here, she could see Imperator Acosta, sprawled out against the Ace's other side, snoring lightly, and all around were the Half-life Nobles and the other members of the War Rig escort, tumbled in exhausted heaps, dug into the warm sand, arms akimbo, some sleeping Lancers and Drivers tangled up in a careless mess of limbs. Dart was even drooling on Tran, his mouth squashed half-open against his Driver's shoulder.

She tightened her hold on the Ace, and his hand touched hers, stroking the knuckles of her hand.

His eyes fluttered open, wearily, and closed before long, but not before he closed his warm hand on hers, giving it a squeeze.

If ever there was a moment where Furiosa remembered what it was like to be safe, to feel protected and warm, this was as close as it was going to get in this world. The realization made her feel lonesome, strangely sad, and it stirred a feeling inside of her that she could not quite place, something from the past that she could not quite remember. A memory of a memory, a nostalgia for a time and place she could no longer clearly recall.

Furiosa took a deep breath, smelling dust and sand and the scent of the Ace's skin.

Exhausted, she closed her eyes, falling into a deep, calm sleep, and dreamed of the green place for the first time in years.

*****

In the hush of early morning, even before the morning patrol left for the day, Nux wandered through the warren decisively, making his way up to the Half-life Noble nest.

Everyone was deeply asleep, and Nux stepped lightly around sleepers, careful not to brush against anyone. He balanced himself the way the Ace had taught them, with careful consideration to weight distribution along every step, though these days moving that way was second nature.

He found the Ace toward the back of the nest, wedged between Furiosa and Imperator Acosta. In his sleep, the lines of tension on his face were eased, despite the bindings holding his jaw shut.

He watched the Ace for a long time, long enough to ascertain that the Ace was alive and well, and that he was being protected by the War Rig crew. Nux smiled to himself, and dreamed about a future where he was part of a crew too, where he was a Lancer with his own Driver. And who would that be? Slit, Morsov, Button...it could be anyone, really, though secretly he hoped it would be Slit. That way they could truly be best mates forever.

Happy, Nux wandered back down to the shops, the Phantom Fixer of the War Tower.

 

“So we've checked and cleaned all the filters, and inspected the sparkplugs. Everything on that end seems good, but the engine power is still running low. Some people might take this as a sign to ask their Driver for help, but let's see if we can't figure this out ourselves. Show me what you've learned so far today. What other options do we have? Is there something we might have missed?” Furiosa leaned against the frame of the car, peering into the open engine underneath the propped-up hood. Nux stood perched on a short footstool. He rested his head against his folded arms thoughtfully.

“Hmm.” Low horsepower was a fairly straightforward problem; not a very common one, but they had already discussed most of the options on how to troubleshoot the engine and he had seen this sort of work done before at least once, when fixing a patrol car. It was merely a matter of checking and exhausting various options. Nux rattled off a list of possible problems. “Timing belt could have jumped a tooth or two. Maybe adjust the distributor. We could check the ratio between the camshaft and the crankshaft. Or look at the dampener, see if the engine ignition timing is off.”

“Good. You're right, it could be the dampener too, I didn't think about that. Very good.” She smiled at him, patting his head. “Where did you learn that?”

Nux shrugged, even though he could place it to the time, day, and Revhead. “Around the shop.”

“Good, I like that you're paying attention. Why don't we start with the distributor?”

“Sorry. I really want to stay and help, but I have to go. I'm already late for training.”

“Really?” Astonished, Furiosa's eyebrows went up. “He's already back at it?”

Nux nodded to her. “He said we should be ready today to start.”

“How did he say that? He's been on rest, hasn't he? I didn't think the bandages would come off so soon.”

“He's been taking them off.” Nux made a face, though secretly he was pleased she had asked. If anyone could make the Ace do something he didn't like, it was Furiosa. “The bandages bother him. He doesn't even like sleeping with them on. He probably doesn't even have them on now.”

“Ah, I told him not to mess with that if he doesn't want to be crooked.” Furiosa sighed. “All right, why don't I come along with you to training?” 

“He won't mind,” Nux said. “Not if it's you.”

It was odd to Nux that Furiosa looked so confused; didn't she know she was the Ace's favorite? Everyone around the shop knew; these days, there was even reliable talk that the Ace was angling to get her a position on the War Rig, though these days Nux was more discerning of what constituted useful rumor.

Furiosa beckoned a Revhead over and gave him detailed instructions on continuing the work.

“Going to the training shop for a few, Coil! I'm leaving the engine to the boys.”

“Tell him hi for me,” Coil shouted from across the room, yelling over the grinding sander, sparks flying up around him like a spray of golden stars. “And tell him to schedule his training later so I get more use out of the one pup we get assigned. I'll even finish early if that helps.”

“No promises.”

 

The Ace was still setting up when they arrived.

“I thought you said you were late,” Furiosa looked down at him, puzzled.

“I am late. Early is on time, and on time is late,” Nux explained.

“Nux! You're late. Come and warm up.” Slit called him over. 

“What're you doing?” Nux ran to the rest of the cohort and dropped to the ground, beginning his sequence of push-ups.

“The Ace told me to yell at you when you got here.” Slit was doing his push-ups slowly, deliberately, occasionally switching to one hand. 

“Showoff.” 

“I'm First, what do you expect?”

“No, I mean that.” Nux gritted his teeth as he went through the count, and Slit grinned as he smoothly transitioned from a one-handed push-up to a side-plank.

“So get stronger,” Slit said and stood, dusting his hands off. He pressed his hands firmly to Nux's shoulders.

“Slit, quit it.”

“You need more weight to strengthen your arms. I'm trying to help.”

“Ugh.” Nux half-collapsed, but then straightened out, grit his teeth, and pushed hard against Slit's weight.

“Good. Do three more of these.” Slit said.

“Trying to be the substitute trainer, Slit?” Morsov finished his push-ups and began stretching. 

“No, just trying to help. Come on Nux, you could even sit on me and I could do these better than you.”

“How'm I supposed to believe that?”

“Because I'm the best.” Slit let go and Nux breathed a sigh of relief. The last few push-ups that he did without interference seemed oddly light, easy after Slit had pushed him. “If you don't believe me, I'll show you.”

Slit dropped down onto his hands and knees, moving readily into position. 

“Ha, Slit. Always talking big. I'd like to see you try,” Morsov laughed. “Come on Nux, get up on that rig.”

Embarrassed, Nux straddled Slit's back, holding onto his shoulders. Slit seemed more muscular than he remembered, or perhaps he was remembering the boy from Bartertown who he had walked around the warren on Slit's first day, hundreds of days ago.

“I don't see how you're going to...” And Nux gasped with surprise as Slit began a series of deliberately slow push-ups, muscles flexing under Nux's hands. Nux mentally did the count. 

One, two, three, four...

“Cohort! Knock it off! Focus!” Furiosa called out to them from across the room. 

“Looks like we got a substitute trainer,” Slit muttered under his breath. “All right, that's enough of that, Nux. You gonna let me help you next time? No complaining?”

“Yeah.” Climbing off of Slit's back, he offered Slit a hand up, but Slit shrugged him off.

 

After practice, Nux ran back; he had forgotten to tell the Ace that Coil wanted him to work the rest of the week with his Revhead crew. Hearing voices, he paused just outside the rough-chipped doorway, making sure that he was hidden in the deep shadow of the hallway.

“Ah, your poor handsome face,” Furiosa sat with the Ace, and her fingertip moved over the skew-set of his jaw. “Your jaw's out of alignment, Ace. I think you may be crooked for the rest of your life.”

The Ace shrugged and made a noncommittal sound.

“You ought to care for yourself better. I hate thinking that this might have been prevented.”

The Ace shook his head. “Happens. Everyone. Can't fix everything,” he muttered, the words mumbled and garbled.

Furiosa sighed. “Maybe it wouldn't be like this if we had been here for you. I wish we had been here to help, to care for you. I'm sorry I couldn't stay.”

The Ace made a sound in his throat, negating. 

Furiosa briefly looked away from him, and Nux bit his lip; her face was a study in misery. “Ace. When I saw you go down on the road, I...”

The Ace sighed, putting his fingertip to her lips to quiet her. He shook his head again, trying to convey something to her with his eyes, with his expression, something that perhaps took too many words to say or could not be spoken.

There was a long silence, so quiet that Nux could hear their breathing, could hear the buzzing high-pitched electrical whine of the power source linking the pedals that had not been turned off yet. 

Furiosa reached out, and very carefully put her arms around the Ace, drawing him close, leaning her head against his shoulder, careful not to jar his jaw.

The Ace put his arms around her, holding her tight. His hard, calloused hand closed over the smooth back of her neck, covering the place where the red mark of her brand was hidden under the white.

Nux left without being seen or heard, figuring he could talk to the Ace later.

*****

“Do they still practice marriage in the west, Capable?” Angharad asked.

“Oh, sure. Momma and poppa were married on top of a great interchange that survived from Before, a connector bridge that was a marvel of engineering yesterday and today.”

“Were you there? What was it like?” The Dag wondered.

Capable laughed. “No, silly. It was before I was born. But they used to tell me about it. About how momma was supervising the concrete pour when poppa met her, how they were on different crews from different settlements, and they had met in the middle, where the pours met. It was love at first sight, or maybe more like love at first pour. Poppa always said momma had a way of getting her crew to make the smoothest, most perfect pour.”

“So the road brought them together.” Angharad smiled.

“Yes. The road brings all of us together. Every person in the world will someday be connected by the road. Their concrete pours merged together that day and were set for life, or at least fifty years or more, depending on load and weather conditions, but that is comparable to a human lifespan. It's still there to this day, the road that connected their settlements, and will be there for a long, long time.” Capable smiled, hugging herself. “And a year later, they married, with all their neighbors and friends, all their family standing witness. I was born soon after that.”

“Do you have any siblings, Capable?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Capable held the rolled up blanket to herself, hugging it tight. “Momma would have had a baby, about one hundred days after I was taken away. I'll never be able to go back; I have no idea how we even got to Bartertown, much less here, and the waste is a huge place, so vast that they might as well be swallowed up entirely. I like to think they're all still there in our little house in the settlement, safe from the world that exists here. Somewhere west, there's a little boy or a little girl, just like me, maybe, with poppa's hair and momma's eyes, wondering where their big sister has gone.”

“Would you marry someone, Capable?” Angharad felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and she changed the subject gently, to give Capable some space. “In our ideal world, the one where we live in a house with a great library. You, me, and the Dag. And the flowers and herbs grow in vast varieties underneath the great glass windows, and we'd spend all our days with the books and the green plants and the fruit trees that grow up through the floors, up to the top stories. Where we'll be tending the plants and reading the books, eating the fruit, wearing vibrant laurels of flowers and fresh-picked leaves upon our heads, queens of our own private paradise.”

“In that world?” Capable smiled at Angharad. “Why, wouldn't the two of us be married in that world?” She took a lock of Angharad's long hair and twined it around her finger. “With rings of gold upon our hands...”

The Dag gave a grin. “Ha! Good. You've fallen right into my trap. That means I get to marry Queequeg and have him all to myself.”

Capable laughed. “The savage? What if he tries to give you an embalmed head?”

“Oh, I'm sure it's just a embalmed head of cabbage.” The Dag giggled. “He'll be tamed once I'm through with him.”

“You're that sure?”

“Oh, sure I'm sure. Queequeg and I will lie in bed together and talk, for hours and hours, . Maybe I'll let Ishmael join us at the foot of the bed; he can sleep across our feet to keep them warm when it gets real cold at night. 'Nice and snug, a cozy loving pair, chatting and napping at intervals.'”

“Won't Ishmael be jealous?” Capable asked.

“Ishmael will do as he's told.” The Dag made a fierce face. “I'll keep that sailor in line; he's a pussycat anyway, what with his grims and his melancholies and his jumping into bed with the first savage that waves him over.”

“Why Queequeg, of all people?” 

“Oh, he seems like a nice fellow under all those tattoos. We'd have lots to talk about, plants and seeds stuff, I'm sure, since he comes from the island with the green woodlands. And he's a green sapling too, just like me. That's what my dada used to call me, a green sapling one meter high.”

“But the Dag, isn't he a cannibal?” Capable wondered out loud.

“Well.” The Dag frowned. “I didn't think of it that way but...yeah, I'm sure he is. That's what the book says. It...it's okay. He's a good cannibal. Probably not like--”

Angharad interrupted. “I'm sorry, the Dag. I don't think he can be allowed to live with us in our house. Not Queequeg. And maybe not Ishmael either, not unless they both promise to give up killing forever.” Angharad thought it over, and shook her head. “No, on second thought, I won't allow it; no cannibal should be allowed in our home. That's just not acceptable.”

“Why? He's a good cannibal, an honest one. Strong and hard-working. And he loves Ishmael so much and is so kind to him.”

“It doesn't matter. Could you trust him, knowing that he's gotten a taste for people? Could you let him near the children?”

“I didn't know we'd have kids,” the Dag tilted her head.

“Why not? Capable and I might want some together. Some girls, to be engineers, librarians, and historians after us, to pass on our skills and ideas.”

“Oh, have you thought up names?” Capable interjected.

“No, but we should...”

“I still want to know about Queequeg.” The Dag said petulantly. “About why we're exiling him from the house.”

“Because he's a cannibal.” Angharad was firm.

“He's not one anymore. He eats rare beefsteaks, but not rolls or coffee. Besides, I thought you liked him, despite his past.”

“I was wrong. There are no good cannibals. Do you truly think that the crimes of the past are so easily forgiven?” Angharad said, vehemently. “Don't you think that those people he ate had families? Mothers, fathers, grandfathers, little sisters...”

“Angharad...”

“And don't you think that those people who were left behind...” Angharad closed her eyes against her tears. 

“All right, fine. Queequeg and Ishmael can't come and live with us. One wouldn't come without the other, anyhow.” The Dag frowned. “How about Mister Starbuck? He's a fine old Quaker, maybe he can cook me some hearty oats...”

The golden strand uncoiled itself naturally from Capable's finger as she wiped the tears from Angharad's face.

 

“I like the old fashioned names the best,” Capable whispered. “It's hard to live up to names like mine. Sometimes I feel like all I'm capable of doing is living and not much more than that, just processing air through my lungs and blood through my veins like a perpetual motion machine that keeps going with no reason.” She sighed and drew the blankets tighter around herself; it was cold without Angharad. “Sophia. Frances. Or Gatsby.” 

“What about Marguerite? That's the name of an ancient flower, long extinct.”

“It has a sweet sound to it. The Dag would like that.” In the heavy dark of night, Capable guessed from the sound of her breathing that the Dag was asleep already, curled up against Angharad's back. “But what if it's a boy?”

“I suppose that's always possible. Hmm, how do you like Eugen?”

“Sounds stiff and formal. Why not name him after one of your historians?”

“Xenophon? Thucydides? Josephus? Practically rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?”

Capable stifled her laugh against the blankets.

“Angharad.”

“Yes?”

“In our world, what happens if one of us has to go away?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like...I don't know, if somehow we're separated. I know we shouldn't talk about it, but it's possible.”

A long pause ensued, and briefly, she thought Angharad had fallen asleep. 

“Capable.” Angharad's voice was low, insistent. “We'll always be together in our world. No matter what happens. As long as one of us remembers, it will exist and we'll be together. There are three of us, so it will always be there, as long as one of us is alive to remember. And even then, it may still live on, somewhere beyond this place, where no storms may touch us. We'll never be separated.”

“Anghard, I...” The words stuck in Capable's throat. In the darkness, she reached out for Angharad even though she knew it was impossible; Angharad was too far away. 

Capable tried anyhow, though she knew that even if both of them reached out with their hands simultaneously, stretching as hard as they could, they couldn't quite span the distance between the two beds.


	10. Chapter 10

Instead of taking Slit to the Organic whose job it was to shave everyone's head smooth, the Ace did it himself, under a bright shaft of cold light in the Wheel Shrine. 

Torchlight glistened off the wheels hung from the altar. Just looking at the many wheels – some in use, decorated by the hands of their crews; others blank, waiting to be taken up by a future crew – and thinking about the eternal V8 and the wheel and its perpetual turning, Nux could feel a lump of tight emotion coiled up in his belly; he was veritably trembling with piety.

The Ace worked slower than the Organic, taking his time so as not to cut Slit, and Nux could tell from the set of Slit's jaw, and the boy's clenched hands that he hated every second of it. Despite the extra attention, where even the Redthumbs had paused at their work, watching curious as the Ace prepared Slit for his promotion, Nux knew Slit despised anyone touching him.

The Ace frowned in concentration as he worked, and the skew-set of his jaw made him look even more stern.

 

They touched up his white at the Wheel Shrine too; Slit had put up with it as patiently as he could, but again, Nux knew he was suffering through every moment. Slit, who preferred things on his own terms, hated to be fussed over and normally put on his own white, particular about the way it was applied. Slit was as flexible as a lizard and had no problem reaching anywhere on his back; it was Nux who needed more help than Slit did.

“It won't be long,” Nux whispered, dabbing white behind Slit's ears. Slit glanced at him and then turned his head away, straightening his shoulders with a stiff, proud bearing.

“There we go.” The Ace said, touching up the white around the brand last, carefully tracing the imprint on Slit's skin with his fingers so that it would show clearly in sharp relief. His calloused hand, the palm of it whitened, patted Slit's head lightly, leaving a faint imprint before the Ace smoothed it over with a fond stroke, leaving no traces.

Slit kept his arms outstretched for a few minutes longer, so that the white could dry properly.

 

“All right then. We got a new War Boy, here. Name's Slit.” The Ace announced, as they went from shop to shop. Some were busy, too busy to take much more notice than a glance and a nod, but a few stopped work to clap or cheer. One, led by Coil that day, even started up a chant of the V8.

Slit seemed to take it all in stride, showing little emotion beyond the appearance of upright dignity, but Nux knew Slit was secretly pleased, basking in the attention. Nux followed, watching from a distance, wondering what it was like to be standing where Slit stood. What it would be like when he was ready too. But he was too little still, barely more than seven hands tall.

Nux scowled and wished himself taller, older, so that he could follow where Slit was going. That he'd be finally done with all his puppy teeth so they would know he was old enough. He wanted to be working the shops too, not just counting and keeping track of disassembled parts for Revheads; already he could disassemble and reassemble complicated components without anyone's help. Sitting and pretending not to have an opinion over the servicing of something as simple as a alternator or even the complex workings of a transmission was half-killing him.

He knew he was ready; it was just that the rest of him could not catch up in the same way.

Frustrated, Nux followed the Ace around as he introduced Slit to his new peers.

 

That night, Nux waited for Slit to return. Slit was young, very young to be promoted, perhaps the first War Pup in memory that had been promoted before his five thousandth day. It would make sense for him to sleep with the cohort for at least a few more weeks, if not more. After all, Furiosa had done it for the longest time, as much as she could get away with, until the Ace gently encouraged her to join a War Boy nest, the one her Driver slept in.

Nux waited, his blanket pulled up around his neck, but time passed and Slit didn't show up.

He must be working late, Nux thought. Maybe the other War Boys were showing him around to those late night crew gatherings that he had heard about but had never seen. Had Slit joined a Revhead crew already? There were so many things Nux wanted to ask him.

Nux's eyes shut. Thinking that Slit had finally returned, sleepily Nux reached for him.

His hand closed on the Ace's elbow.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Embarrassed, Nux drew back his hand.

“Go to sleep,” the Ace muttered, a low growl.

Nux stayed up most of the night waiting, but Slit never returned.

*****

“Good day's work, crew. Thanks for the hard work.” Coil clasped hands with everyone on their Revhead crew, thumping shoulders, before passing out half-bars of food.

“Thanks boss!”

“You're the best!” 

Furiosa pulled off the welding mask with a smile. “If you keep feeding them, you're going to go short yourself.”

“Ah, it's nothing. Besides, I still get more bars than you, Lancer.” Coil winked. She shut off the torch with a click, leaving the tools to the care of the War Pup who began cleaning up around the shop, putting things away. The War Pup yawned, sleepy, and Coil rubbed his head affectionately.

“Here, eat this.” He gave the War Pup the last half-bar. “Next time, get some sleep, Nux. We're counting on you to keep track of all the screws and stuff. You did fine today, but I know you can do better.”

“Yes, Coil. Sorry.” 

“It's all right, everyone goes short on sleep once in a while. Just make sure to take care of yourself. Don't let it become a bad habit. We all need you to be at your best.”

“Yes, boss.” The boy nibbled on the bar as he worked, quickly tidying up the shop.

“Supper time?” Furiosa wiped her hands clean.

“Not quite. My stomach-clock is telling me that we have some free time. An hour, maybe? Want to go for a walk?”

“Sure. Let's go to the central shop; I'd like to see some real sunlight today.”

 

They climbed up to the narrow maintenance walk above the giant wheels of the lift mechanisms and walked out to the edge. Below them, the day's work was far from over; the Treadmill Rats were being lowered in blocks of ten, and fresh ones were coming up to replace those whose shifts had ended. An Organic was handing out bottles of Aqua-Cola and bars of dried food as payment.

Furiosa stretched out her hands to the warm, late afternoon sun. It was always nice to finish work early; Coil always managed to schedule his crew's work hours so that everyone had time afterwards to do as they pleased. It was better than the lot of many other crews; some Drivers she had heard were picky, controlling, and pushed their crews relentlessly. Coil on the other hand had a light touch; he trusted the members of his crew individually to do their best, and if they weren't performing, he took them aside personally for a little talk that always seemed to work.

Coil sat down, his legs dangling over the side, warming himself in the heat of the sun. He laid down with a pleased sigh, briefly making the V8 before pillowing his head in his hands.

“I'm looking forward to running the triangle again. Now that we've installed that new transmission, I can't wait to try it out on the Fury Road.”

“We'll have to take it out for a test drive first, won't we?”

“Sure, that's what we should do tomorrow, after--” And Coil sat up, turning around to see who was coming as he felt approaching footsteps vibrate through the metal deck.

“Ace!” Furiosa smiled. “What brings you up here?”

“Was looking to find you, Furiosa. Some War Pups said you might be here, and here you are.” 

“You look good. Better.” Furiosa touched his jaw lightly. “No more lingering pain, I hope?”

“Eh, good enough to get up on the rig. That's what's important, right?” The Ace shrugged.

“Ace. How's it been?” Coil smiled as he stood up to greet the Ace.

“Busy, very busy. Got another one of my War Pups promoted recently; now I'm down to two and it looks like I might not be running the cohort for much longer. We're bringing on a new Half-life Noble soon; he'll be taking over the pups.”

“Yeah? Who's it going to be?” Coil asked boldly, and Furiosa nudged him with her elbow.

“Coil! You're not supposed to ask those questions!” She remonstrated, and he laughed it off.

“No, that's not a bad question to ask.” The Ace looked amused. “That's why I'm here, actually.”

Furiosa and Coil exchanged a look of surprise.

“You.”

“No, you.” Coil and Furiosa pointed at each other.

“It can't be me.”

“It has to be you, Furiosa.”

“Ahem,” the Ace cleared his throat. “Can't say exactly who's been advocating for who, but Coil's right; there's been a push to ask you, Furiosa. They thought I might like bringing the news around myself,” the Ace smiled. Even though it pulled muscles oddly in his crooked jaw, his eyes lit up with a genuine warmth, shining with pride.

“Ha! My Lancer! Mine!” Coil suddenly hugged Furiosa tight. “A Half-life Noble! What an honor! By His deeds, Furiosa, I knew you'd go far on the Fury Road! I knew it!” Furiosa caught the barest gleam of tears in Coil's eyes.

“Hey, hey...” She gave him a reassuring squeeze before easing his hands off of her. “Just because I'm offered a position doesn't mean...”

“Doesn't mean what? Oh no. No. I know that look. No, you can't do this, Furiosa. You have to accept.” Coil caught her by the shoulders, trying to catch her eyes. “This isn't like that Driver offer; this is much bigger than that. You'll be raised up...”

“I...”

“Listen, Furiosa. Imperator Acosta, the Half-life Nobles and I; we think your work's spoken for itself. We think you'd make good judgments, good decisions for all us War Boys as one of the Five. The Imperator saw your work when you were in the practice shop with me; he thinks you'd make a good trainer. You know how I taught you; you can pass it on down the line when you pick your new cohort. You'll even be inheriting some of my pups; they'll be able to fill you in on anything you might need to know.”

“And I'll still be by your side, Furiosa,” Coil argued. “Just a little further away. You'll see the back of my car from the top of the War Rig, driving escort ahead. And the Ace will be with you, he'll be your best crewmate; you already know most of the others...”

“I'm sorry, Ace.”

“No, Furiosa...” Coil took her by the hand. “Don't do this. Please, just accept. This opportunity only comes around once; if you don't take it, the Imperator's not going to offer it again.”

“I'm fine where I am.” Furiosa was shaking. “Please don't make me take on responsibility that I'm not ready for.”

“Ah...!” Coil threw up his hands in exasperation. “Furiosa! You're as stubborn as a block of tungsten carbide and twice as hard to budge. You deserve this and you should take the promotion. I know you'd be great at the job.”

“No, no. It's all right.” The Ace patted Coil's shoulder. “It's all right, I understand. Hard to give up a good crewmate, even if it's for me.”

“No, Ace, it's not like that...” Furiosa blinked and found her eyes full of tears, her vision swimming; she could tell that she had profoundly disappointed the Ace. But what could she do? It was better to hurt him than face the horror of a new nest, of new relationships with new crewmates, men who she didn't know, men who weren't as dependable as Coil, men who might want more from her than what she was willing to give. After all, most everyone knew that the Ace had put one Half-life Noble under the wheels already; not all the Half-life Nobles were trustworthy men, at least not where it mattered to her.

It would have been different if she were a man, Furiosa thought, then she could feel safe giving up her Driver, if she were as heavily built and strong as either Coil or the Ace were, if she could fight off another man as easily as they could, but that was not possible, it had to be this way. There were no other options.

“No, no. It's fine. We have another candidate; I'll pass the message up the line,” the Ace said, huffing a sigh. He shook his head. “Acosta's not going to like this much; he was hoping to know by the end of the day that you had accepted.”

“You still have time to change your mind, Furiosa.” Coil said gently. “Think about it over supper; we can tell the Imperator after, right Ace?”

“No, I...” Furiosa swallowed. Carefully she met the Ace's eyes. Cold and distant, pale gray like the colorless morning sky before dawn. “I'm sure about my decision, Ace. I want...I just want you to know that I...” She choked on her words, unable to tell him how she felt, why she couldn't accept. That she wanted to be at his side, but not if that also meant standing at the side of three other men, who she didn't know and couldn't trust. “I can't. I'm so sorry, Ace.” The words came out barely above a whisper, as she choked her feelings down.

“I am too.” The Ace walked away without looking back.

*****

The iron sound of footsteps. The click of the turning lock. The three looked at each other, worried; it was an unexpected visit.

The two Imperators appeared at the door, and there was a certain finality to their expressions.

“Come now, up with you.”

The three stood slowly, but then the bearded Imperator, pointed at Angharad.

“No. Not you two. Just her.”

“No, Angharad!” Capable gasped, but Angharad stepped forward, boldly.

“We knew it was going to happen eventually,” Angharad managed a smile at Capable, a grim tightening of her lips. “Don't worry about where I'm going, Capable. Whatever happens, I'll be waiting for you in our world.”

*****

The Ace broke the news to him that morning, but it was old news by the time the Ace announced it to him direct, so Nux was ready to face it. All there was to do was to smile and wish the Ace luck; that was how War Boys faced any battle, cheerfully with no tears, for anyone could be lost at any time.

Today, tomorrow, it could be any day.

Nux dragged himself along to the Immortan's Tower alone, sick at heart. 

He was being left behind by everyone.

 

As Nux waited for Corpus Colossus in the chilly, damp room where light of the sun never quite seemed to fully shine, he heard the striding off-beat footsteps of a pair of incoming Imperators. Nux slipped out from his accustomed doorway, ducking behind a pillar.

The Prime was holding a key. Curious, Nux watched as the Prime opened the heavy metal door.

It was bright in that little room; the sun shone brilliant through the window, and Nux gasped at what he saw.

He had but a brief glimpse; there were three girls inside. Later, he would think back and guess that perhaps they were about Morsov or Button's age, but it was hard to tell; he had never before seen women that looked like these three. Slender, delicately boned, like budding green shoots growing strongly in the golden sunlight of their stone enclosure. Fragile beauties, strange blossoms that had somehow bloomed out of the toxic dust of the warped and mutated waste. One of them in particular, a very pale one, had an inhuman beauty to her, as if she were a specter who had walked out of a world beyond the waste and for its own reasons had chosen to take human form.

“No! Angharad!” A cry of anguish, and the pain in that melodic voice sent a chill through him, made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, at once beautiful and horrifying.

Across the distance, for the measure of one breath and two heartbeats, he met the eyes of the girl who had called out; she had a shock of curling rust-red hair like the fiery halo of the eternal wheel of the sun about her face.

Her lovely eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

Nux looked away, but he could not forget; it was seared hot into his memory.

Without hesitation, the Imperators pulled the girls apart and closed the heavy metal door; it shut with an echoing finality. The great chamber of the Immortan's Tower once again fell into darkness and the echoing sound of moving water as they locked the door.

They took the girl named Angharad away. Nux watched as she was escorted into a forbidden part of the Immortan's Tower.

She never once looked back as she left everyone behind.

 

In deep shadow, Nux waited for Corpus Colossus. The silent iron door pressed hard against his shoulder, Nux turned his silver hex key over and over between his hands. Though he kept his ear pressed to the door, trying to know whose voices he had heard so many hundreds of days ago, he heard nothing but silence. 

There was a stillness inside of him that he could not quite understand. He was empty inside, hollowed out, scorched and burned through.

Nux fell asleep waiting, clutching his hex key to his heart.


	11. Coda

Hand over hand, using the thick links as footholds, Slit made his way up the iron chain.

“What's going on over there? Can't see anything from here.” Slit squinted from his iron perch, nearly the highest point overlooking the great heart of the War Tower. Below in the central shop, the War Boys milled about, eating and drinking, the chatter a great hum broken sporadically by laughter or enthusiastic shouts. Soon they would play games, like Botany Bay where single Lancers would ride on their Driver's shoulders and spar with each other, trying to knock each other off in imitation road battles, or Point-Against-Point, a game that was played by drawing lines and points in the sand, path-connecting them. 

“The Immortan Joe's getting married,” Morsov nibbled on a kernel of walnut meat, savoring the rich, oily nut. “That's why everything's closed down and we're getting McFeasted today.” 

“Obviously, but I mean inside the Tower. What are they doing?” 

Nux looked up at Slit, swinging slowly from the iron chain he had climbed up. “Probably eating, like we are. The last time the Immortan was married, we got fresh orange slices instead of dried figs. Oh, those were good.”

“Has anyone seen what they do in the Immortan's Tower during the wedding?”

“No, other than the Bullet Farmer and the People Eater, only the Imperators attend. You could ask Imperator Acosta, if you're feeling kamicrazy,” Morsov snickered. “Even War Pups aren't allowed to be in the Immortan's Tower today; the Immortan only uses his own personal attendants.”

“I saw the girl,” Nux said, around a mouthful of food. “In the Immortan's Tower.”

“No! No way!” Morsov exclaimed. “Lucky! What did she look like?”

“Tall. Long hair.”

“Pah, everyone's tall to you, Nux.” Slit's teeth crunched through the tiny seeds of the fig, and the sweetness clung to his mouth, cloying.

“You know who might know what goes on in there? Furiosa.” Morsov suggested. “We could ask her. She's lucky; she's been closer to the Immortan Joe than anyone around the warren.”

“Don't be stupid, Morsov.” Slit glared down at Morsov. “You know you can't go around asking people about their pasts.”

“Yeah, it's rude.” Nux peered down at the Wretched; they had flocked to the Citadel from miles around at word of the impending feast with the great handouts of food bars and the water, which had already been sent down in a massive cascade in celebration.

With a jerk of his legs, Slit swung off the metal chain and landed with an impressive flip, a chunk of dried fig clamped between his teeth.

 

Furiosa heard the clamor and looked up at the maintenance walk; it was just some young Revheads at play. Dismissing them, she once again looked across at the distant balcony and tried to see inside the Immortan's Tower, but from here it was impossible. Once the heavily veiled girl had been briefly introduced at the balcony as a new wife, she had been whisked back inside quickly, flanked by Immortan Joe and the Prime Imperator.

Furiosa remembered the gossamer white veil, the rouge upon her lips, the sweet perfume of orange blossoms, the costly drapery of her clothes; just the material alone could have bought a man's labor for a hundred days or more. The lonely cell with its days upon days of solitude, the little carvings she made ticking off the count, the happiness she felt when she had been released. Thinking back, she recognized the confinement as intentional. Intended to make her glad for anything new that came her way, past the plate of food and the glass of milk twice a day.

And she remembered how glad she was that day to be freed and in the following days to be adorned and anointed. To look out at the vast anonymous crowds below, War Boys and Wretched alike, and the brief, heady power of being raised up at Immortan Joe's side, her hand clasped in his.

In the end, those promises had all been lies. 

Furiosa touched the collar of her bodice, and brushed off a chip of the white that had dried to it. 

Perhaps she would have a better view if she moved closer to the edge, but no, she would have to wade through the mass of War Pups congregating where they could get a better view of the Immortan's balcony. And above, the second level, she'd have to deal with the Lift Imperators. Perhaps the top maintenance walk, but no, she recalled it was swarming with--

“Huh?” She looked up, as Coil ran his hand fondly over the smooth scalp of her head.

“Lancer. There you are.” Coil sat down beside her; most everyone had left the central deck once the Immortan had retired to the depths of his tower. “You weren't in the line, so I picked up your extra ration.”

“Thanks, Coil. You can have it if you want. I'm not hungry.”

“Something like this is too good to have twice in one day. It'd lose its savor, and I'd lose the good memory of that first, best bite. I'll save it for you later, for when you're hungry.” Coil pocketed the generous packet of nutmeat and dried fruit.

Furiosa shrugged. “Doesn't matter.”

Coil noticed how her melancholy eyes searched the Immortan's Tower. “Perhaps it's good that you're not hungry right now. I'm here because I need you.”

“Oh?”

“Lancer, there is some very serious, very important work that only you can help me with. We have been formally challenged to games, and I told the boys that there was no way we would back down. We must uphold our honor as a crew; I need you up top my machine, Furiosa.”

“Driver...” Furiosa shook her head. “Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I'm joking? I'll carry you myself into the fray. Come on, Tran and Dart are waiting; they're fighting with us against Booster and Habib. They're picking the fourth now, come on!”

“Wait, Coil...Coil!” Furiosa was surprised into laughing when he bodily picked her up and somehow managed to set her on his shoulders, fumbling for balance. “Here, let me...” And Furiosa swung her leg over his chest, feeling his bare scalp under her palms as he lifted her up, straightening to his full height, holding her legs against his shoulders.

She towered above the crowd; in the distance, other War Boys were also being lifted up, ready to battle.

“Here comes a young War Boy from Botany Bay! Thunder up, Lancer!”

“Fang it, Driver!”


	12. End Notes

**End Notes**

Special thanks to Geoduck, for reading section after section of stories every day for a couple weeks and giving useful feedback. Thanks for your support and for putting up with such a demanding, kamicrazy writer!

Thanks to you the reader for reading, and especially thank you to those of you for commenting. I really appreciate all the support; I can't express myself well enough in this regard. I apologize that it takes a while to reply; it takes me a while to think up a good reply and even then, it's usually painfully awkward in retrospect. Whatever the case, I highly appreciate the kind words and kudos! I'm so grateful to have such an appreciative audience.

This was the most complex story I've written to date, with the most characters and points of view. I have really enjoyed getting to know the characters and world a little better with every story. Slit, for example, turned out to be something of a surprise; I never thought I'd like writing him so much. 

Sorry these notes are so long. I've tried to whittle them down into something saner, but they were fun to write and I included a few notes from other stories in the series that I didn't initially include. 

I have another story planned that deals with Nux's Revhead days, Furiosa's transition to being a Driver, and the year before Fury Road, but that needs some more thinking before I can start getting to work. I'll also try to finish _Gloria_ , which has suffered somewhat on account of trying to finish this story before life gets hectic again.

8/28/2015: Made a few minor corrections, mostly on links. 

**Chapter 1/Prologue**

The Ace is eating with the War Pups instead of the substitute trainer because he's been out of favor with the Half-life Nobles for reasons that are described in _Rota_. 

The Half-life Nobles have their own nest in the lower part of the upper warren where it's quieter and there is less foot traffic, but the escort is allowed to join them after Bartertown runs to rest and recuperate. Most people sleep through the day on their rest day or at least nap at intervals. It's unusual for Furiosa and the Ace to be up so early after a long Bartertown run, so it is obvious to Nux that they are trying to hide whatever they're up to.

The Ace normally doesn't train anyone in hand-to-hand combat. The War Pups generally are allowed to fight it out amongst themselves and learn how to fight that way ("scrappin"). However, as Furiosa was older than any of the War Pups in her cohort and too young/lightly built to be fighting with grown War Boys, the Ace took that under consideration and decided to train her himself. Their practice on the false War Rig ramp suggests that he hopes to track her toward a Half-life Noble position, which would be beneficial to him too as it would give him more allies among their ranks. Her own abilities speak for herself; she went from War Pup to a full-fledged War Boy Lancer in a fraction of the time it normally takes on account of her hard work and talent. That, along with her hard work and responsibility, makes her well-respected in War Boy society.

The work of fermenting "beans and greens" is for a source of vitamin B-12.

The girls lose their hair as well, as a preventative against lice, fleas, and other parasites they might have brought into the Citadel with them from wherever they were brought in from. It also gives Immortan Joe a general measure of how long they've been in the Citadel and how old they are. The rate of hair growth will also indicate their general health.

Miss Giddy is not in the lives of the young girls because there is a rightful fear that she will indoctrinate the girls into despising Immortan Joe and his ways. Therefore the girls end up locked up by themselves, with limited outside contact. The Dag has been in the 'dormitory' for up to a year or more alone in what amounts to solitary confinement, with nothing but a book as her friend.

The young Immortan Joe's looks are based off of the Toecutter in the original Mad Max movie. This holds also for his appearance in _Rota_. 

Immortan Joe has no interest in the young girls other than as future breeding stock. There are other Wives in the Vault at this point; we later see them in the movie as Milking Mothers. The Wives are cycled out every now and again, so the current girls are a future 'crop'.

*****

**Chapter 2**

Better jobs for War Pups come with better skills and thus are the most desirable. The best jobs are Revhead shop jobs where they will get a chance to listen and observe the work on the cars, which will give them an edge in promotions later on during the average three to four years everyone has to serve in the shops as a Revhead (the average is on account that the usual Revhead starts at about 5000 days old). Going through this stage means that if anything ever breaks down on the road, any War Boy is able to troubleshoot and fix their vehicle to the point where they can continue on their way. No one is promoted to Lancer without spending enough time to get good at repairs.

The names of the cohort are listed in the order rank. Approximate ages: Button: 14, Morsov: 13, Slit: 11, Nux: 8, Notch: 10. Nux is a rising star in their cohort and thought of as one of the best despite his age, though he faces growing competition from Slit. Notch is at the bottom end of competency for their cohort and despite being closer in age, not exactly someone Nux has much in common with. Notch will eventually make Lancer by the skin of his teeth. 

The Ace has a measure of ambidexterity from years of working in and around the Citadel. He learned how to do things like swing a pickaxe leading with either hand so that he could rest muscles on different parts of his body during his long days of hard work cutting stone (as described in _Rota_ ). He also learned to shoot with either hand so he can cling onto either side of the trade rig (later War Rig) and still be a decent shot. Under his tutelage, the boys are encouraged to be fully ambidextrous, where Nux is the best of their cohort in this regard.

The Ace's training regimen is unusual; previous trainers were more haphazard in how and what the War Pups were taught, but the Ace has a plan of what a War Pup's general education needs to be (mechanical skills, troubleshooting, determination, competency on top of the car, fighting ability, etc.) and tailors a plan around that to both individuals and the group as a whole. The Ace is streamlining the training regimen and producing War Pups ready for promotion faster than anyone has in the past. This is because he has an innate interest in problem-solving.

The pedals that control the practice car are re-purposed guitar effects pedals. The Lancer's perch is the front stoop on a car, the Lancer's basket the back stoop.

Corpus Colossus is the official head of the War Tower (short for War Boys' Tower). When Immortan Joe is out of town, Corpus takes over control of the War Tower and is moved over there as a show of his might. He sets a time for the meeting, and then doesn't show up for anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours to make the War Pups nervous. Knowing the War Pups hear almost everything around the War Tower, Corpus uses them as his informants. However, he can't tell any of the boys apart, so the despised job is rotated amongst individuals belonging to the subgroups of War Pups (Lancer cohort and the Organics). Because there are more of them, the Organics are left with the greater burden of appearing at meetings; the Lancer cohort is only obligated to send one of their rank.

Corpus Colossus' lines about running the War Tower reference Master Blaster, from Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.

The War Pups wield a certain amount of political power because of these meetings. It is in the best interest of War Boys to treat them well, so they're not ratted out by a War Pup at a meeting. However, if they rat out someone who is well-liked, the War Pup might find themselves turned upon as well. So all toe a very delicate line and it is safer in general to keep one's mouth shut, no matter what has been seen or heard.

The new things Slit has are things that he repurposed or made himself. He's not foolish enough to try to steal from the shops or from the War Boys. 

*****

**Chapter 3**

The initiation that Imperator Acosta has gone through is described in _L'Arbre du Ténéré_ ; it is a way for a War Boy to go through death in life and be reborn through their deeds. “I live, I die, I live again” is something that can only be said by someone who has passed the initiation. The actual scarred lips and the full V8 scar is very rare among War Boys and signifies achievement through surviving the ordeal in the waste. The scarred lips are much imitated in black paint; they signify the sewing up of a corpse's mouth.

Many of the driving concepts and terms used are inspired by Formula 1, including one character name.

There are different levels of live practice; this particular live practice that the boys have been invited to watch is close to the top end of difficulty where crews practice against crews. 

The practice sessions can also determine the order of the cars escorting the War Rig, where the best Driver and Lancer crew have the honor of driving front escort. Formally there are four crews and three sessions, where the winning crews of the first and second sessions face off against each other. After that, they run other types of exercises such as two or three vehicles against one. The explosive canisters are loaded with containers of the white clay the War Boys use on themselves, of too poor a grade to be used for skin.

Furiosa's unusual strategy comes from chariot warfare.

Coil is what I've been calling the Lancer who rides with the front escort of the War Rig in the movie (on the rust-red 'Elvis' car). He is the one who asks the Ace “What’s going on?” when the War Rig goes off-road. He's also the first casualty of the War Boys when she makes her escape run as he's flung off the car in hostile territory. This has turned out to likely be Morsov, but at the time I wrote this chapter and _Furiosa_ where Coil makes his first appearance, this was unknown, so for the sake of the story they are two different people.

Furiosa, as a very talented Lancer, was paired up with a very talented Driver. The Ace was the one who put them together as a team, after Coil went through a series of Lancers without keeping one for more than a single short run. The Ace insisted that Coil give Furiosa a shot at the Bartertown run, and Furiosa's abilities and professionalism appealed to him so they formed a team together.

The Ace eats lunch alone on top of the support truck with his rifle as he's on guard patrol all day.

The fact that the War Pups have been allotted so much food for an outing is indicative that the outing has received official sanction from higher up. This means that everything they're doing today has the backing of an Imperator higher than Acosta, perhaps even Immortan Joe directly.

Win should actually be spelled Nguyen, but the original spelling has been lost to time. Tran is not short for transmission, but comes from an existing surname.

As War Boys exist as a collective unit, there is very little use of the personal pronoun “I” to begin sentences. When someone begins a statement using “I” it generally suggests there is something of an intimacy between the two speakers, that they feel they can speak about themselves personally instead of generally. Slit for example, almost never starts a sentence with "I" except when talking to Nux.

This usage of the first person pronoun to begin sentences can also represent the speaker taking personal responsibility for something, or to make their statement stronger, to draw the other person's attention that what they're saying is important. Also, for elites such as Imperators, they start with "I" to indicate individual authority. I've been using this idea pretty consistently throughout the stories in this series.

Powder Lakes are mined as a source of saltpetre, used in gunpowder.

As punishment for incompetence, anyone can be busted down to shop-bound Revhead permanently. Shop-bound means they'll never be promoted to Lancer.

Driver and Lancer crews are formed by either mutual agreement or assignment by the Half-life Nobles. Some Drivers have up to five Lancers, and all form very close bonds with their Lancer(s). As Geoduck pointed out, this may be the closest analog to a marriage, as crewmates are partners in work and society. Monogamous relationships in single Driver-Lancer crews and polyamorous relationships among multi-Lancer crews definitely exist. There are certain social expectations of behavior among Driver-Lancer crews. Here, Coil and Furiosa are putting up a good front for public view; in private they are not as physically close.

Angharad's assessment of the Imperators comes as a result of her background and education. She is well-read and her thoughts reflect her education and upbringing.

The Imperators that look in on the girls are the Prime and [the Secundus](http://evilasiangenius.tumblr.com/post/124938804064/for-all-the-members-of-the-leadership-of-the). The Secundus is the one who kills and eats the spider. The Prime Imperator is the main antagonist of _Furiosa_. He is the Imperator that announces Immortan Joe in the movie, and he and Furiosa fight at the end of the movie (he hisses at her, and goes under the wheels when Nux rear-ends the Gigahorse). He's also seen in the third deleted scene giving out orders. Here, despite his tendencies as a sex abuser, he doesn't dare even give the girls a second look, because Immortan Joe is behind him.

The Dag has no idea that 'canst' is a second person conjugation, so here she uses it as a third person.

The girls are using the book as their own 'fandom' where they reinterpret the text for themselves. In the case of the Dag, her interpretation means that she identifies so strongly with Pip that she has identified his suffering as her own. As Pip is a castaway, so too is the Dag.

Queequeg and Ishmael can also stand in for Nux and Slit, in a bit of foreshadowing. Also, Capable talking about bringing them over to their side is foreshadowing her future relationship with Nux.

Position is very important; better positions mean more food and better quality food. The food bars, for example, are distributed to only people above the War Pup line (Revheads, Lancers, Drivers, Half-life Nobles – basically anyone who might go out on a run or out in a War Party) and the higher the War Boy, the more wages he earns in terms of food. 

Starting with the Lancers on up, food at mealtime is double the amount that everyone else gets, which is why many Lancers and Drivers are more heavily built than run-of-the-mill Revheads and Organics. Newly promoted Drivers or Lancers tend to be fairly slender in contrast to peers who have been working the job for a while. Extra food bars are traded for goods and services, or in the case of Furiosa, given out to War Pups. It has been centuries since a cash economy and everything is done through barter. As the food bars have a short lifespan, there is no sense of hoarding or holding back; unused food bars often get cycled down to hungry, growing War Pups. This can unintentionally buy the loyalty and favor of War Pups. In addition to trade, gifting and reciprocity is common; hoarding bars would be seen as either silly or a social faux pas, as it is ultimately wasteful since they go bad.

Slit learned how to fight in the mean streets of Bartertown, watching the Thunderdome fights and scuffling among the other children there.

Slit has no idea that Morsov has any connections to the Buzzard clan. That was just a random insult that paid off.

In a world without much individuality, something that makes a War Pup or a War Boy stand out, especially in the eyes of the superiors who can improve his life, is very desirable. As for the Ace and the others, they have no interest in stopping this fight as it gives them a gauge of which War Pups have the potential to be the best in the future.

Morsov will not challenge Nux's positions for the same reason Slit didn't. However, he may not be ready to fight Slit again, not after being embarrassed by the Ace's intervention.

Slit thinks the others are laughing at Morsov's misfortune; in reality, they are laughing because of Slit's insolence and audacity in setting Nux in the line after him.

The War Rig crew lead is the job that the Ace will have in the movie, but currently that job belongs to someone else.

*****

**Chapter 4**

Slit is first War Pup now and Nux is second, so Button has been promoted for a while.

Bulletfarm is a much smaller settlement than either Gastown or the Citadel. By the time of Fury Road it is bigger and can muster more men, but in this phase all three settlements not as big, rich, or as powerful as they will be later.

Nux gets the second bar later only because the crew lead hasn't received all his rations for the run yet, though that extra food bar will probably end up coming from Imperator Acosta. Furiosa also receives some for her trouble, and the additional expense will be paid for by the Half-life Nobles pooling their resources.

Unknown to Furiosa, the Prime Imperator has been lurking in the background, waiting for an opportunity to get to her again. However, usually she's surrounded by other War Boys so this is the first opportunity he's had to get close to her in over a year. This is a continuation of certain events in _Furiosa_.

The Prime and the Ace have a long history of antipathy, as seen in _Rota_ and _Furiosa_.

The V8 sign here is used as a sign of submission to authority.

Furiosa and Coil have a very different private relationship than they have in public. In private, Coil is very respectful of her boundaries. Furiosa is about 16 here, and Coil is 22, six years older than her. I estimated that the minimum age Coil became a Lancer was about 18, and three years with Win puts him at 21 when Furiosa becomes his Lancer. Again, all ages are approximate.

Using the War Pups as informants is a double-edged sword; here, Corpus Colossus has thought all this time he was getting the War Pups to tell on the War Boys, but in reality, the War Pups have been telling the War Boys about what happens in the Immortan's Tower. The War Boys know more than they let on. 

Koori is a term that some 'Aboriginals' of New South Wales use to describe themselves. Kiley means 'boomerang' in an anglicized form of an 'aboriginal' term. (I use 'aboriginal' in quotes as I have heard many people who are 'aboriginal' themselves find the term offensive, but it may be more familiar to most readers.) These young women are wives who turned out to be infertile, and thus were discarded into War Boy society by the Imperators. As they are young, healthy, and capable of work, they're not sent down into the Wretched.

The War Pup trainer is theoretically in charge of anyone new to War Boy society, so the occasional discarded wife could fall under their jurisdiction. When the Ace saves Furiosa, it is completely by instinct; he did not think of this as a hard rule as there was no set precedent. The other women were incorporated into War Boy society slowly through other means, likely accepted and taken in by other War Boys such as Revheads. There are two tracks to becoming Revheads; one is by being taken up by the War Pup trainer and incorporated into the future Lancer cohort; the other is by doing odd jobs around the warren until one is picked up by a Revhead crew. So even the occasional Organic can achieve Revhead status. However, because of people like the Ace, the best supplemental shop jobs generally go to the future Lancer cohort. Best jobs include complex tasks like tracking the order of disassembled parts and screws or putting tools away; worst jobs are fetching or running messages. I had an idea that War Pups running messages are like the War Boy equivalent of texting. “Tell Dak 'lol' for me.”

Going 'under the wheels' is a mark of War Boy justice as mentioned in _Rota_ , where the Ace sends another Half-life Noble under the wheels for crippling two War Pups. It is a way of punishing another War Boy and only happens between peers. However, if one War Boy's actions against another are determined by his peers to be unjust, he will find himself going under the wheels too. Despite the fact that sending someone under the wheels might be condoned, there is still a social stigma against the act as the War Boys need to know they can trust each other during long and dangerous runs or during war. It takes a few years for the Ace to regain the acceptance of his peers, despite the fact that they agreed with his decision.

This is an ideal principle of War Boy society, that people don't care about an individual's past (class, race, or gender), only what their current abilities are. This is in part because many have pasts as slaves or captives, and most would rather not remember or have it held against them.

The second Hundred Year's War that Angharad refers to started with WWI and continues through the Cold War and into the present. This is a reference to historian Eugen Weber calling WWI and WWII the second Forty Years' War in The Western Tradition.

The Latin words that the Dag is singing is a setting of “[O Magnum Mysterium](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7ch7uottHU)” by Morten Lauridsen. The piece she sings from is a choral work, but she only knows the one part and cannot possibly recreate the entire work by herself; it shows how isolated and cut off she is from her community.

Angharad quotes from _The Historian's Craft_ by Marc Bloch, the Bible, and _The Fantastic Mr. Fox_ by Roald Dahl. Annales Block is a corruption of Marc Bloch's Annales school of history. Her explanation of her name's origin comes from a conflation of the Welsh myth cycle _The Mabinogion_ and the novel _How Green Was My Valley_ by Richard Llewellyn. This distorted version of the Biblical verse 'by the rivers of Babylon' is meant to invoke the lynchings of African-Americans in the 19th and 20th centuries, tying Biblical and historic captivity to the captivity that the girls experience.

The tattoos on the Dag's knuckles (second joint), starting from her index finger, are like a farmer's almanac. The index tracks the phases of the moon (waxing, half, waning), the middle tracks four seasons, the fourth finger tracks the days in blocks of ten, and the pinky tracks the quarters of the day.

There is [a very interesting theory](http://war-rig-ace.tumblr.com/post/122745012581/the-fantastic-mr-mad-max) that the three elites, Immortan Joe, the Bullet Farmer, and the People Eater were inspired by the villains in _The Fantastic Mr. Fox_ , which is the story Angharad quotes.

Nux is only as reliable a narrator as he can be; he has no idea that behind the scenes, there were probably lots of discussion and negotiation with Imperator Acosta and the other Half-life Nobles. The fistfight was the most obvious thing he saw, and thus he reports it as the truth as to how Morsov joined the cohort.

Morsov initially only spoke Russian, but he learned the language quickly and retains no accent, though as seen in the previous chapter, he can sure cuss up a storm in Russian. He switches languages to curse due to the War Boy world where there are very few epithets and calling someone 'filth' is about the absolute worst a person can be called. This is in keeping with the style of the movie having almost no cursing (about the only people who come close are Max and the Dag), and to emphasize the War Boys as boys and not men – permanently trapped in a childhood/adolescence that lacks the vocabulary of adults.

*****

 **Chapter 5** :

As referenced in _Rota_ and _Gloria_ , the Ace helped with some of the work setting up the Immortan's Tower. The upside-down A, is the Ace's builder's mark, which both stands for his name and is the mathematical symbol meaning “For All”. The other languages that the graffiti are written in include Arabic and Mandarin. The Gossypium is Sturt's Desert Rose, the state flower of Australia's Northern Territory.

Neither Furiosa nor Coil have ever driven the daily patrol. Coil started out as a Lancer for a Driver (Win) who was already on the War Rig escort. When Win died, Coil inherited Win's drive on the War Rig escort and proved he was up to task. Furiosa did something similar, being assigned as Coil's Lancer. Generally driving the patrol is either to help someone out on the schedule (how Win died), assigned as punishment for escort drivers (like Furiosa and Coil), or actually a regular job for the pool of newer Drivers and Lancers.

There are height-weight limits for Lancers. 9 hands to 10.5 hands is ideal. Much more above or below that, and the work gets too dangerous. Being bulky and heavily built makes the Ace a little too heavy and slow to work on a car, though he is fine on the War Rig.

To be shredded is to be lashed viciously before being thrown in a cage hanging above the Wretched, and left for flying insects to lay eggs in one's wounds and eat one alive. Often, the Wretched will hang out under the cage, hoping to catch fallen maggots for food. Water is given occasionally to prolong the agony. Other forms of punishment include exile and being trashed. These are slightly different; exile means that one must be out of the Citadel's territory for good within a certain amount of time. Trashed means to be let down into the population of the Wretched and allowed to live in the vicinity of the Citadel. Crippled War Boys are generally trashed (such as the legless man at the end of the movie, who given his physique, could be a former War Boy).

Handing the wheel over in this case means to unmount the wheel from the steering column, the way Nux does when he salutes Immortan Joe.

As Driver-Lancer relationships are very close, they can sometimes be sexual in nature, though most are platonic in nature. Furiosa and Coil have a purely platonic relationship. 

The “drive set up” is the most important aspect of the car, where the car has to be adjusted (set up) to a Driver's specifications. This has anything to do from aesthetics to engine set up to the placement of the brakes/throttle. For example, Nux's car is set up for left-foot braking, so one imagines that other pursuit cars are set up that way, to be driven like a race car or a kart. 

*****

**Chapter 6**

Here the wheel vaguely implies a wedding band, in terms of a symbol of partnership. One imagines there may be prayers made and oaths sworn over it during its creation. The wheels are standard and can fit any vehicle in the Citadel.

Unsurprisingly, gold is not terribly valuable in this world.

Patrol cars are not customized as the Drivers are drawn from a general pool that varies from week to week, taking turns. When not driving or riding patrol, the pool of extra Drivers and Lancers work on repairing and maintaining the patrol cars.

The chipped yellow paint on the car is reminiscent of the yellow pursuit cars in the first Mad Max movie.

The War Boys are definitely using the masculine pronoun for Furiosa, as male is the default gender in this world. This was to show that in general, War Boys don't see Furiosa as different from any other War Boy, stripping her of some of her individuality so that she like the others are part of the collective.

Furiosa's patrol car is based on a late 1950s, early 1960s Ford Consul MkII saloon.

The patrol has a lot of extra fuel in case of road battles, so it's expected that they'll do some practice as battles are not that common. V8 engines are reserved for cars driving escort; most other vehicles are V4s and V6s. 

Bandits are a general term for individual road warriors and small, unimportant tribes that form short-term alliances in order to capture vehicles and other loot.

The general idea is that Drivers drive at a level that is equivalent to modern stunt drivers, which puts most others (like Bandits or Buzzards), including their own Lancers at a disadvantage. Most everyone else drives at a level equivalent to the average modern driver, which includes not using the turn signal when appropriate.

Many of the Imperators are boys that were born in the Citadel, to Milking Mothers; better pre- and post-natal nutrition guarantees that many of them are Full-lifes. Some of the War Boys are as well, notably the Full-life Coil. Once the children are weaned and toilet trained (about 1000 days old) they are put into the War Pup system where they are essentially raised by their peers and other War Boys. So Coil and Nux (who may or may not have been born in the Citadel) have no memories of having parents. In Coil's case, his father was an Imperator, though no one knows who. There is between a 20-50% chance that his father was the Prime Imperator.

No one calls The People Eater that to his face. The diminutive names for the men are all intentional, to make them seem boyish and immature, despite their status as the only true 'men' in their communities.

Redthumbs are the Organic Mechanic's top assistants, analogous to Blackthumbs, who are the best of the Revheads.

*****

 **Chapter 7** :

Plastic trash is sadly still everywhere.

Unbeknownst to all, The Dag has a tenuous connection to the early history of the Citadel; the stolen blonde girl named Sam in _Rota_ is her mother, captured by a roving motorcycle tribe. Because Sam fought with the Prime Imperator (then known as Primrose), the Prime put her in a dangerous situation that caused Sam to be captured, though this is something that Ace could not have known at the time. This ties to the Prime putting the Ace in a dangerous situation in this story, also out of spite. 

Given what the Dag calls them, some of the Dag's botanists are Chinese.

In this story, the Dag often switches to a more poetic, 19th century novel style when she talks about something she is uncomfortable talking about. Her normal plainspeech is more herself; whenever she speaks otherwise, it suggests she wants to have an emotional distance from her words.

The Ace is among the Half-life Nobles who went down the lifts with Imperator Acosta to buy the boys and the Dag. It's possible that the boy that was near the Dag's age was Notch.

The former occupations of the ancestors of each tribe, such as Botanists, Historians, Librarians, or Engineers, has become something like both work and faith to their descendants. The skills are passed down through the generations and the work of rebuilding roads has become a religion. The yellow headgear is reminiscent of safety helmets. Toward the west of Australia, the settlements are actually a little more civilized than the east, toward the former ocean and former population centers. It suggests that during times of trouble, people move to marginal, less desirable lands that are more defensible, as was common in the early Dark Ages in Europe.

There are no more pigs in the underground methane farm in Bartertown (as seen in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome), just humans.

Like the Spartans dressing their long locks of hair and oiling their skin before the Battle of Thermopylae, the War Boys are getting ready for their big day in Bartertown.

Coil's talk about ordinary men is an ironic and oblique reference to the book, _Ordinary Men: Reserve Police Battalion 101 and the Final Solution in Poland_ by Christopher Browning.

Malchik means 'boy' in Russian.

The Organic Mechanic's song is the Sailor's Hornpipe from Alice in Wonderland (1951 Disney movie), originally sung by the Dodo, but with the Organic Mechanic's own words.

The food is cooked down softer for sick War Boys, but the Ace isn't feeling well enough to eat all of it. Later, Slit probably beats up that Organic War Pup for eating the Ace's food.

People like Furiosa can visit without being challenged because they're too high ranking to be bothered. Despite the Organic Mechanic's rank as the highest of the Organics, he's still below the War Boys in social standing, a conundrum given how much they need his abilities. However, the War Pups are low-ranked and little enough for the Organic Mechanic to push around, so he does. This has to do more with power than any rules about visitors.

Twelve food bars is a huge fortune. Without the majority of the War Rig escort crew around, twelve bars would be almost impossible to get; they would have to find twelve different individual Revheads who might have somehow saved a bar. Together all the Half-life Nobles could come up with twelve, but they're at the highest rank below the Imperators, so for anyone lower than that, it would be very difficult.

*****

 **Chapter 8** :

While the Drivers and Lancers get some rest, the Half-life Nobles will take over guarding the convoy, as they can sleep on the rig once they're on the road.

1080 is three complete 360 degree rotations.

As a sign of his individuality, Imperator Acosta has abandoned the common, clipped 'War Boy' speech, for a more formal language. It is the verbal equivalent of not having to wear the white anymore. Furiosa speaks 'War Boy' rather poorly; she sounds quite stilted here. Coil speaks it quite fluently, but switches to a more personal style alone. 

Acosta also has a similar scar to the cheekbone scars that most of the War Boys will be seen with later. An Imperator's distinctive scar might be emulated by others once the Imperator dies, as a sign of mourning. Imperator Acosta was the War Rig Imperator for ten to fifteen years until he was killed in _Fortuna_ , so he was an important leader in the lives of most of the characters. Geoduck thinks Acosta looks something like actor Anthony Quinn and he's not wrong; Acosta is meant to be of Latino descent, specifically Mexican. 

It's likely that those Revheads Slit is talking disparagingly about are actually gathering extra food bars to feed family members down in the Wretched. They're not interested in glory, honor, battle, or war, but in survival and the survival of those they care for.

What Slit thinks is a fortune in beans is not very much beans in the eyes of Furiosa and the Ace. Their respective scales are different because Slit has never seen so much wealth before, whereas Furiosa and the Ace handle it regularly on trade runs.

That three-pronged garden fork gets a second life in later years...

Immortan Joe lived in this sod house with his wives and his brother in _Rota_ many years ago, and the Ace lives in it in _Gloria_. 

The Ace's training tool is also seen in _Gloria_.

*****

 **Chapter 9** :

Geoduck and I had [an amusing discussion](http://evilasiangenius.tumblr.com/post/127248253124/after-viewing-the-deleted-scenes-my-prereader-and) on Lancer walks.

The War Pups follow orchestra rehearsal rules; they're expected to show up early to warm up or otherwise get ready.

This embrace is an inversion of the Ace throttling Furiosa in the movie. 

Belief in the road is an extension of belief in progress through engineering, taken to a religious end. The overpass is like a cathedral here.

Here, Capable's background is similar to the Ace (older sister, younger brother), but flipped, where she is the one who is separated from her people instead of the Ace. So Capable and her younger unknown sibling is like Frances and the Ace (in _Rota_ ).

The Dag is paraphrasing bits and pieces of _Moby Dick_ strung together into one statement. When she talks about being in bed with Ishmael and Queequeg, it is meant to be purely platonic. Queequeg is also described in the book as 'a green sapling.'

Due to their different backgrounds, the girls use different units of measure than the Citadel War Boys.

Sophia means 'wisdom'. Frances is the name of the Ace's older sister and possibly a common name in the west (all the names of the children in _Rota_ were meant to be gender neutral to reflect the beliefs of their community, even the Ace's). Gatsby of course, is from _The Great Gatsby_ by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Marguerite is the name of a type of daisy, and also the name of the love interest of Faust (in the operatic version by Charles Gounod), who is seduced and abandoned by a man who's made a deal with the devil. Xenophon was famous for his _Anabasis_ in which he led a Greek mercenary army out of hostile enemy territory in Persia. Thucydides chronicled the Peloponnesian War. Josephus was a Jewish rebel who failed to take his own life during a Roman siege and subsequently was enslaved. Eugen is for Eugen Weber, whose series _The Western Tradition_ is one of my favorite things ever despite some old-fashioned historiography. I have watched it many, many times; elements of it inspired some of the worldbuilding and I highly encourage everyone to watch it.

*****

 **Chapter 10** :

The Wheel Shrine is at the center of the cult of the V8. Due to iconography, it seems that there are two distinct religions – the cult of the V8 and the cult of the Immortan Joe – that have roughly fused into a new syncretic faith. The former is more of a personal, household religion, and the latter is the state religion. This is inspired by Roman methods of worship. The cult of the V8 probably has roots in the Engineer kids that formed the original population of the Citadel (as in _Rota_ ), and the cult of the Immortan Joe was grafted onto it. There are elements of sun/moon worship in the cult of the V8.

The Ace has been Furiosa's greatest ally and of course he was the one who advocated her promotion. One thinks he has a lot of personal influence with Imperator Acosta.

Later, in _Fortuna_ , Furiosa gives herself a promotion to Half-life Noble after she gets onto the War Rig to help the Ace. At that point, she and the Ace are equals for a few minutes, before she takes action that leads her to become promoted to Imperator. Geoduck suggested that perhaps after this, she and the Ace do not really speak to each other until _Fortuna_ , some years later. Furiosa and Coil have something of a fight before the beginning of _Fortuna_ ; it'll be worked into another story, once I get it structured out.

The ancient Greeks also believed in sending off friends and loved ones into battle cheerfully; tears were considered a bad omen.

Because Capable's eyes are full of tears, she actually does not see Nux, at least not clearly.

*****

 **Chapter 11, Coda** :

Botany Bay is named after a traditional children's game called _Here Comes an Old Soldier from Botany Bay_. This particular War Boy game has no resemblance to the original game. Botany Bay is also the place where Captain Cook first landed in Australia. 

Point-Against-Point is the literal translation of the word counterpoint, literally _punctus contra punctum_ in Latin, and the name references musical counterpoint. This game itself is based off a West African game involving Eulerian paths which is referenced in the Wikipedia article on Ethnomathematics.

Fruit and nuts are all pre-peeled/cracked for the War Boys, not just because of niceness, because their peels and shells are commodities that can be reused for other purposes like extracting orange oil or walnut shell dye, among other things. 

Habib is apparently Australian slang for “mate”. In this case, it's used both as a cute slangy name and also to reflect ethnic background.

Some of the background, miscellaneous War Boys are named after either my War Buns (feral rabbits that live in my yard, notably [Notch](http://evilasiangenius.tumblr.com/post/127370471889/witness-me-doctor-honesty-not-exactly-me-but-i)), various friends' pets, and a few from an article on [Australian slang](http://www.buzzfeed.com/chrisrodley/most-strayan-words-of-all-time#.ryLZDbK5g).

All the titles of this series are feminine Latin words, other than L'Arbre du Ténéré.


End file.
